“You’re a good girl, Clara,” he slurred, turning toward the door.

“Get some sleep. You have a big day of smiling ahead of you.”

When the door clicked shut, I collapsed onto the floor, my lungs burning.

It was a near miss, but I couldn’t afford to panic.

The clock was ticking.

By 8:00 a.m., my suite was swarming with hairstylists, makeup artists, and my maid of honor—a vapid socialite Adrian had practically assigned to me.

I sat like a porcelain doll while they painted my face and pinned my hair into an elaborate, suffocating chignon.