"No, I didn't kill him—" The words tore out of me and sounded small in the bridal suite. The lamp in my hand cracked under my palm. Glass fell in white shards across the carpet. He was on top of me. His fingers under my dress, his mouth in the wrong place. I hit him because I had to hit him. I hit him because I could not let him finish. He went down. Hard. "Sara! Call the police!" someone screamed from outside the bathroom. A bridesmaid's voice, thin and high. Footsteps. A flutter of panicked fabric. I pressed my palm to the wound at his temple. The warmth under my palm spread and stuck to my skin. I couldn't think beyond the single, wide-eyed need to breathe. The door crashed open. "Dion!" Valentina's laugh cut it. "What a picture." Dion stood framed in the doorway the way a man stands when the cameras are waiting. His tux looked expensive. His eyes were empty. He walked in slow, like he had rehearsed this movement. Giuseppe followed him, hands folded, a calm that felt like a blade. "Stay back," I said. My voice shook and caught on the syllables. Dion's face went flat. He stepped forward and slapped me across the cheek. The sound hit me harder than the blow. "You ruined everything," he said, voice low. "Do you think anyone will forgive this? Do you think the Fields name survives a thing like this