Page 215 of Arrow

“How did he get these?” My fingers trembled as I touched the delicate diamonds. I hadn’t seen them since my mother’s funeral, when my father had locked away all her belongings.

“Arrow has his ways,” Luna replied with a soft smile. “There’s more.”

I reached deeper into the bag and found a delicate diamond bracelet with an A charm. The silver gleamed in the light, catching prisms that danced across the ceiling.

“Something new,” Luna said, helping me secure it around my wrist.

Next was a lace handkerchief, edged in blue thread. “This was mine on my wedding day,” Luna explained, tucking it into my hand. “Something borrowed.”

The final item was a small sapphire pin shaped like a teardrop. “And something blue,” Luna whispered, carefully pinning it to the underside of my dress where only I would know it was there. “An old Romanov tradition. The women in their family have worn sapphires on their wedding day for generations.”

I felt tears threatening again and blinked them back.

“It’s time,” Frank announced from the doorway. “The cars are ready.”

My heart hammered against my ribs. This was it. In less than an hour, I would be Harlowe Romanov.

The ride to the cathedral passed in silence, the city streets blurring past the tinted windows. Frank sat across from me, his eyes constantly scanning for threats. Two black SUVs flanked our car, filled with security personnel.

When we pulled up to the cathedral, I could see the crowd that had gathered—not just wedding guests, but curious onlookers, journalists hoping for a glimpse of the union between two of New York’s most notorious families. Frank pulled up to the back of the church, away from prying eyes. The amount of security walking around in black was mindblowing.

“Ready?” Frank asked as the car stopped.

I nodded, gathering my courage along with my dress. Frank and Luna escorted me inside the back entrance and into a room right outside the cathedral entrance. The stylists touched up my makeup before placing my veil. It was thin lace with tiny diamonds sewn into the fabric that caught the light. Luna arranged it carefully over my face, the sheer material softening the world around me. The veil trailed several feet behind my dress, the delicate material creating a ghostly tail behind me.

“Your father is waiting in the foyer,” Luna whispered. “He’s supposed to walk you down the aisle.”

I took a deep breath, steeling myself for the confrontation. After everything he’d revealed about my mother, about his plans for me, the thought of having him escort me to Arrow felt like a betrayal of everything I’d chosen.

“I don’t want him to give me away,” I said firmly. “I’m not his to give.”

Luna’s eyes widened slightly, but she nodded. “What do you want to do?”

I considered my options. Walking alone down the aisle would make a statement, but it would also spark whispers and create a spectacle that would overshadow what this day was truly about.

“Frank,” I said, turning to the man who had protected me faithfully since I was a little girl. “Would you walk me down the aisle?”

Frank’s normally impassive face registered genuine surprise. “Me? Principessa,⁠* I⁠—“

“Please,” I said, reaching for his hand. “Frank, please. All these years, you’ve kept me safe. You’ve been loyal. That’s more than my father ever did. You’ve been more of a father to me than he ever has. Please walk me down the aisle and give me away to Arrow.”

I thought he might refuse. Frank was old-school and prided himself on carrying himself with honor, and I wondered if that honor would override his affection for me. He straightened, his expression softening, and then settled into pride. “It would be my honor.”

Luna squeezed my hand. “I’ll go tell your father.”

“No. I’ll tell him myself.” I straightened my shoulders, gathering my courage. “He deserves to hear it from me.”

Luna hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

When she left, I turned to Frank. “Will you send him in?”

Frank disappeared briefly, returning moments later with my father. Giovanni Virelli wore a tailored black tuxedo, his silver hair perfectly styled, his expression carefully neutral. But I could see the tension in his jaw, the calculating look in his eyes as he assessed me.

“You look beautiful,” he said after a moment of silence. “Like your mother on our wedding day.”

The comparison should have warmed me, but out of his mouth it felt like another manipulation—another attempt to use my mother’s memory to control me.

“I’m not walking down the aisle with you,” I said without preamble.