"Handle her cleanly."
Hands closed over Francesca's mouth before the second word finished. The voice on the phone stayed calm. Dead calm.
"Who is this?" she spat into the hand, forcing air. "Let go."
"Not your night to bargain," a man said into the receiver. He sounded bored. "Vincent says no scene."
One of the masked men tightened his grip. Another clicked the phone off. Metal tasted like cold promise against her teeth.
"Listen," Francesca said, fighting the hand. "You're making a mistake. If you hurt me—"
"No one gets hurt if you cooperate," the bored voice said. A boot pushed her ankle. "Cooperate and you go quiet. Make noise and you don't make headlines."
"Headlines?" She barked a laugh that turned into a cough. "Vincent would rather make a headline than marry me?"
They dragged her to a chair. Rope bit her wrists. She tested the knot. It held. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She heard the sound and pushed hard enough to get it into her palm.
"Please," she told the man who'd left the phone on the table. "Just let me call my lawyer."
"Phone's part of the show," the man said. He flipped the screen and pointed it at her face. The battery glowed. The livestream was already on.
The camera feed showed a marble altar, white roses, a woman in ivory laughing with a tilt of her chin. The woman lifted a veil. The crowd cheered.
"Stop—" Francesca tried
