The groom's room was quiet, tucked away from the bustle of the wedding preparations. Outside, the venue was alive with the sounds of arriving guests and rustling flowers and the distant strains of string music warming up. Inside, Gilbert Pemberton stood before a full-length mirror in his wedding suit, staring at his reflection as if it belonged to someone else.
He looked the part. The dark gray suit had been tailored to perfection, the tie was straight, the shoes were polished to a mirror shine. He looked like a man who was about to marry the woman he loved. He looked like a man who had everything under control.
His hands were shaking.
Arianne entered without knocking. She took one look at him—the rigid shoulders, the clenched jaw, the way he was gripping the edge of the table as if it were the only thing keeping him upright—and closed the door behind her.
"You look like you're about to face a firing squad."
