The designer arrived at exactly two o'clock, just like Killian said.
A team of three quiet women dressed in all black entered Nora's wing. They didn't say much. They just gestured for Nora to stand on a small wooden platform in the center of the dressing room. For two hours, they draped, pinned, and tucked a heavy, blood red silk gown around her body. No one asked Nora what she liked. No one asked how she felt. They worked quickly and efficiently, treating her like a mannequin.
When they finished, they packed up their scissors and tape measures, bowed their heads, and left as silently as they had arrived.
Nora stood alone in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection. The dress was stunning, but it felt dangerous. It had a high collar that wrapped tightly around her neck, long sleeves, and a structure that hugged her waist before pooling around her feet. It was the exact color of fresh blood. It didn't look like a dress for a party; it looked like armor.
At seven o'clock, the heavy oak door to her wing clicked open.
Nora walked out into the hallway and found Viktor waiting for her. He looked her up and down, his face expressionless as always.
"The car is waiting downstairs, Mrs. Blackwood," Viktor said, stepping aside to let her pass. "Mr. Blackwood is already inside the vehicle."
Nora held the heavy skirt of her red dress and walked down the floating staircase. Her heart was beating hard against her ribs, but she kept her chin up. She refused to look afraid. They went down to the underground garage, where a long, armored black limousine was idling quietly.
Viktor opened the back door for her. Nora took a deep breath and stepped inside.
The interior of the limousine was dim and spacious, smelling strongly of leather and Killian's cedarwood cologne. Killian was sitting on the plush leather seat, looking over some papers on a built-in screen. He wore a flawless black tuxedo that made his broad shoulders look even wider. His dark hair was combed back perfectly.
When Nora sat down opposite him, he closed the screen and looked up.
His icy gray eyes slowly traveled from the top of her high collar, down the curves of the red silk, to the floor. For a long moment, he didn't say anything. The silence in the back of the moving car was thick and suffocating.
"You look exactly how I wanted," Killian said, his deep voice smooth and calm. "Beautiful, dangerous, and completely mine."
"I feel like a target," Nora said, staring straight back into his eyes. "You made me wear red again so everyone would look at me."
"Exactly," Killian murmured, leaning back against the leather seat. "I want them to look at you. And then I want them to look at me, realizing they can never touch you. Tonight is a performance, Nora. The press will try to corner you. They will ask about your family, your background, and why we got married so fast. What are you going to say?"
"I memorized the tablet," Nora replied coldly. "I am the daughter of a professor. We met at an art gallery fundraiser a year ago. It was love at first sight, and we wanted a private ceremony away from the cameras."
Killian smiled, but the expression didn't reach his eyes. "Good. Say it like you mean it. If you hesitate, they will smell the blood in the water."
The car pulled up to the grand entrance of the Metropolitan Museum, where the hospital gala was being held. Even through the tinted, bulletproof windows, Nora could see the chaos outside. Hundreds of camera flashes illuminated the dark night like lightning. A crowd of reporters stood behind metal barricades, shouting and holding up microphones.
Nora's hands began to shake. She had never been anywhere like this in her life. She was used to the quiet corners of the diner, not the blinding lights of high society.
Suddenly, a large, warm hand covered hers.
Nora gasped slightly, looking down. Killian had reached across the space between them and gripped her hand. His hand was huge, his skin warm and solid against her freezing fingers. According to the contract, there was to be no touching in private, but they were about to step into the public eye.
"Look at me, Nora," Killian commanded softly.
Nora looked up, meeting his sharp gray gaze.
"The moment that door opens, you are no longer Nora Finch from the slums," Killian said, his voice dropping to a low, intense whisper. "You are Nora Blackwood. You hold your head high, you lock your arm in mine, and you smile. I will not let them hurt you, but you must play your part. Do you understand?"
Nora swallowed the lump of fear in her throat. She felt the power vibrating off him, a protective yet terrifying force. She nodded. "I understand."
"Good." Killian released her hand, but before she could feel the chill of his absence, he slid over to her side of the seat.
The driver opened the door, and the roar of the crowd hit them instantly. The noise was deafening, a wall of shouting voices and the frantic clicking of cameras.
Killian stepped out first. The crowd went wild, shouting his name. He turned back, offering his hand to Nora. Nora took a deep breath, placed her hand in his, and stepped out of the limousine into the blinding white light of a hundred camera flashes.
The cold night air hit her face, but she forced a bright, stunning smile onto her lips.
Killian immediately placed his large hand firmly on the small of her back. The heat of his palm burned through the thick red silk of her dress. He guided her forward, his touch possessive and unyielding, steering her up the grand stone steps of the museum.
"Mr. Blackwood! Over here!" a reporter shouted from the sidelines. "Is it true you got married over the weekend? Who is she?"
"Mrs. Blackwood, look to your left!" another voice screamed.
Killian didn't stop for the interviews. He kept his hand firmly on her spine, pushing her gently through the sea of press until they passed through the massive glass doors of the museum and into the grand ballroom.
The noise of the street died down, replaced by the soft sound of a live orchestra and the quiet chatter of the city's wealthiest elite. The ballroom was breathtaking, filled with massive ice sculptures, towering floral arrangements, and women in diamonds and expensive gowns.
But the moment Killian and Nora walked into the room, a sudden silence rippled through the crowd.
Dozens of heads turned to look at them. Nora felt the weight of their judgment, their curiosity, and their suspicion. She felt small, but then she felt the heavy pressure of Killian's hand on her back, anchoring her to the spot.
"Smile, little bird," Killian whispered near her ear, his breath brushing against her hair. "The vultures are circling."
A group of older men in expensive suits members of Killian's corporate board began walking toward them. Nora braced herself, tightening her grip on Killian's arm as the true test began.