My mother Althea, at six hundred and nineteen years of age, is the most beautiful woman I know. Her gorgeous ebony hair shines. Her golden eyes sparkle. Her skin’s luminescent. Her limbs are long and elegant, and her smile practically knocks men over like bowling balls smashing dead center into a stack of pins.
She was born just before the Spanish invaded our islands and named it the Philippines. At first she hated my father for what he did to her people, but eventually he won her over. As the president of the United States dragona, the CEO of the Dagobar Group, and the reigning champion of the local sparring ring, he’s about as savagely successful as they come.
He’s not someone you’d pin as a lovesick romantic, but that’s the kind of relationship they have. It’s probably entirely my mother’s doing. She’s effortlessly charming and gracefully elegant, all the time.
But their love for each other isn’t the reason they could arrange a marriage for me with Ragar the Ruthless, the oldest and most terrifying son of the leader of Russia’s dragona king, Mikhail the Marauder. They did that entirely thanks to my dad’s similarly savage reputation, and the successful empire he’s built.
Of course, seeing as he runs a horrifying mob of dragona in a savage part of the world, he’s kept fairly busy. That’s why today’s our first time meeting in person.
I had such high hopes. It’s really too bad that I absolutely detest him.
“I learned English for you,” he says. “So that your delicate brain isn’t required to strain itself.”
“Strain itself?” My delicate hand’s currently itching to slap him, but I’ve been trained my entire life for this moment. I don’t know much about literature or science, but I know exactly how to be the perfect dragon-shifter bride.
It doesn’t involve slapping my groom across his handsome face.
“The most beautiful female dragona are always the most delicate.” When he grins at me, his teeth practically gleam. His cheekbones are just as high and sharp and his eyes just as bright as they looked in his photos. His is a bright and deadly beauty, perhaps more so in real life. He’s even less warm than my own father, which I hadn’t thought possible.
But Dad warms up around Mom. I need to remember that.
“I think you’ll find that we Goldenscales dragona aren’t nearly as fragile as you’ve been led to believe.”
He wraps an arm around my shoulders, dragging me up against his muscle-rippling side. “That’s cute, but I had killed a dozen other dragons by the time I finished with what you call high school. You can feel safe, knowing that I will never fail to protect you, no matter who must be slain.”
Slain? Who taught him English? Did they use the Bible as the work text? It’s an effort not to roll my eyes. “Oh, that’s so good to hear—a dozen dragons, dead, by the time you turned eighteen.” Maybe he’ll take my shudder as a sign of how impressive I think he is.
“Does that not please you?”
Or maybe not. It’s too bad he’s not a little dumber. “Uh, no, I mean, yes. It does make me happy. How could it not?” I clear my throat. “Just think about all those bloody corpses.” My lips twist. “I mean, that’s hot.”
This is not going well.
“It may take me some time before we can eliminate these communication errors.” He beams down at me, like he’s extremely generous. “I should have known you’d be impressed. What dragona would not be pleased to learn her future husband is the strongest, scariest, most powerful man in the world?”
“Right.” I force a laugh. “Who wouldn’t?”
Me. That’s who.
Maybe it’s because I’ve been surrounded by testosterone-dripping dragona my entire life. Maybe it’s because no one even bothered to ask me if I wanted to get married. But in this moment, the meeting I’ve been groomed for my entire life, I’ve never wanted to disappear from my own life more.
“I trust you’ll be pleased with the spectacle that we have arranged for our wedding. There will be hundreds of fire-eating dancers, dozens of the very best singers, and thousands of dragona from your father’s realm and mine, all coming to pay tribute. The pile of treasure downstairs is already quite large.”
Tribute.
When Mom first told me we’d be getting heaps of jewels and other fancy gifts, I could hardly contain my excitement. Now, the thought of smiling as thousands of people swear fealty to us and bind their oaths with gold and gems makes me a little ill. “Do we really need all of that?”
Ragar’s face blanks, as if he can’t understand the words I’m speaking. Perhaps I should repeat my question in Russian for his delicate brain.
“Ya ne khochu etogo,” I say.
“You learned Russian?” He looks even more surprised by that than he does by my declaration that I don’t want any of their pledges and treasure.
“Do you really want all those people to swear to serve us? Is it really necessary, in this day and age?”
“You’ve been kept sheltered and safe.” Ragar nods. “That’s as it should be.” He strides around me in protective circles, as if an attack could come from any direction at any time. “But it means you don’t understand the true nature of our people. Your instincts are to nurture and to make beautiful. Leave the rest to me.”
Right now my instincts are to gouge and to scream, but I manage to keep from saying that out loud.
“It’s the oaths they offer that will keep our people together. With more than twenty men for every single female, they all crave the chance to protect you, and that’s why they will serve me.”
Not us.
Him.
His smile is downright wicked. “Because I’m marrying the finest among all our females, I will usher in a new generation of strength and vibrancy.”
Again, with the ‘I.’ Is he planning to lay dragon eggs himself? This guy’s the worst.
He steps closer to me and puts a hand on my belly. “I can’t wait to start. I’ll have more children than any other ruler before me.”
Oh, goodie. I’m about to be a dragon egg E-Z Bake Oven.
Usually I like dark and handsome things, but instead of sending a thrill through me, his touch fills me with increasing dread. I should tell him that I can’t marry him. I should tell him that, although I greatly regret it, I need to call off our wedding. But he’s right about one thing. I was raised with great care and sheltered from everything. Mom and Dad never taught me to do hard things, so I can’t quite force the words out.
After he finally leaves and Mom comes in, I can’t keep a tear from sliding down my cheek.
“Anak ko, what’s wrong?” Mom wipes the tear carefully from my face. “Crying will make your face puffy and red. We can’t have that when you’re getting married tomorrow. Do you know how many reporters will be there? The entire world will be watching.”
No, we can’t have anything mar the perfection of my appearance. That just won’t do. Rage floods my entire body. Why is the only thing that matters my looks? Why didn’t anyone ever ask me if I wanted to marry Ragar? Without that uncharacteristic anger, I’m not sure I would have been able to force the words out, even with only Mom in the room.
But I do say them. “I don’t want to get married tomorrow.”
Mom frowns. “It will be difficult to postpone the wedding, but—”
“I don’t want to get married to Ragar ever.” The words are barely a whisper, but I said them.
Mom heard it, too. I can tell. Her entire face is frozen.
“I know you went to a lot of effort to set the wedding up.”
“Not just effort. Great expense,” she says.
“I am sorry about that, and I know a lot of dragona have travelled from Russia—”
“From all over the world,” she corrects.
“Right.”
Mom takes my hand gently and drags me over to the plush chairs in the corner of my room. “It’s normal to be nervous about starting a new life, but it’s important to remember that this is about more than you.”
“My wedding is about more than me?”
“You know I didn’t choose to marry your father, and my mother told me the same thing I’m telling you now. Sometimes it falls on you to fix things when they go wrong. It’s part of being a princess, a dragona, and a Goldenscales.”
“What could I possibly fix by marrying a blockhead?” I shake my head. “He literally spent five minutes bragging about how many people he’d slain.”
“Your father wasn’t always the gem he is now, either.”
“Oh, please. Dad was never as bad as Ragar.”
Mom rolls her eyes. “Dad came to conquer, and he saw our country as spoils of war. But how about now?”
“It’s not where we’d like it to be, but Dad has helped the Philippines a lot.”
“Every balikbayan should thank your dad for their job overseas. Why do you think he helped create jobs for Filipinos all over the world?”
I shrug.
“They’re integral to the cruise industry, the healthcare industry, and many, many more. I convinced your father that in addition to Tagalog, my citizens needed to learn English, preparing them for the chances we created. I’ve improved the standard of living for all of my people by advocating for them.”
Mom’s saying now that those changes helped, but in the past she’s complained that sending Filipinos around the world was only a superficial solution. Dad wouldn’t do the work necessary to create more jobs in the Philippines, and that’s the problem. He didn’t really listen to her—not to what her people actually needed. He did what she wanted on his terms.
She stares at me pointedly. “You have the chance to do the same thing.”
Which is exactly my problem—I don’t want a marriage like hers. I want more. “So you know Ragar’s terrible, but I have an obligation to marry him and keep him satisfied. . .so that I might one day convince him to help people? Is that really what you’re saying?”
“He’s not that bad. He’s fairly handsome, for one, and his dragon form is—let’s just say that it’s much better than your father’s.” She shivers.
“Gross.”
She tilts her head. “Perhaps you have questions about tomorrow night.”
Tomorrow night? Ew, no. “Mom, look.” I scooch toward the inside of my chair, moving a little closer to her. “Dad’s pretty tough, and he yells, and he demands everyone listen to him, and they do. But you love him.”
Her smile’s half-hearted. “What are you saying?”
“I don’t love Ragar. I don’t even like him. I hate Ragar,” I say. “He’s arrogant, and he’s rude, and he doesn’t care about me at all. He doesn’t know anything about me, and he doesn’t seem to care to learn. He doesn’t even listen when I speak.”
“You’ll figure that part out. The important thing is that no dragona alive can better protect you than he can.”
“Not you, too.” I stand up and start pacing, my footfalls making no noise at all on the plush carpet. It’s very unsatisfying. Why couldn’t I have tile or at least wood? “Mom, I can’t possibly marry him.”
“He’s the fiercest, most battle-proven dragona in the world,” Mom says.
“Oh, I heard,” I wail. “He’d killed a dozen dragons by the time he graduated from high school.”
She doesn’t know what to say about that.
“I don’t want a butcher for a husband.”
“You’re a female dragona. You may not like it, but that’s what you need.” She purses her lips and folds her hands in her lap. “You have no idea how many dragona will pursue you—would have already, if you weren’t engaged to him five years back.” She sighs. “He may be a little rough, but he’s barely a hundred years old.”
“By Gabriel, Mom. I’m twenty-four and I have better manners.”
“Anak, dragona don’t care about manners.” Her nostrils flare. “He’s strong enough to defeat his own father and take control of the dragona for the entire Asian continent, but he’s loyal enough that he hasn’t done it. That’s a rare combination.”
“Oh good. Savage, but loyal. That would be exactly what I was looking for—in a guard dog.”
She stands and tilts her head. “You’ll be even more pampered than you have been here, and you won’t ever be in danger.”
I stomp my foot, but again, thanks to the stupid carpet, it’s like my foot is muzzled. Every part of me feels wrapped up, tamped down, and muted. “I don’t want that,” I say. “I want an equal partnership.”
Mom laughs, the same trilling laugh she’s always laughed. “You think I have a partnership?”
“Don’t you?”
She sits again, and pulls the chair I was in closer to her. She pats the seat cushion. “Sit and listen.”
I do as she asks, but my fingers dig into the armrests. “Fine.”
“You know that male dragona have the power among our people.”
Sadly, that’s true.
“They can transform into great beasts. They can fly. They can breathe fire that will melt a building or forge metal into weapons. They can decimate towns, the larger and more powerful of them. Ragar’s one of those. With that power comes a terrible ferocity and usually a very bad temper.”
“If you’re trying to change my mind, you’re doing a terrible job.”
“But you haven’t paid enough attention to your power. Rivers aren’t flashy. They aren’t terrifying. Most people ignore them, but that’s stupid. The river carves the land, changing its shape, providing life to its occupants. Wars are fought over rivers, and they should be. It’s the river that has the power of life and change. Rivers endure.”
“Mom, get to the point.”
“You’re a river,” she says. “All the children of our people come from you and will be raised by you. You have the power to call your husband to you unequivocally. Don’t underestimate the importance of your charm. With time, you will shape and mold him, and he’ll do as you ask, always. He’ll cherish you as your father cherishes me. It wasn’t your dad who pulled for this match. It wasn’t your dad who chose Ragar for you.”
“Huh?”
“It was me.” Mom drops her hand over mine and squeezes. “I gave you a tremendous gift, and once you tame him, once you use your charm to bring him to heel, he’ll do anything you ask.” She stands up and smooths her skirt. “Don’t ask to stop this wedding again. Think on what I’ve said, and instead of wasting your time fighting it, come up with a plan to tame that raging inferno who will soon be your husband.” She drops her voice to a whisper. “Make your mother and your grandmothers proud. You don’t have to wield an axe to rule the world. You just have to direct the one who holds it.”
I think about what she said for the next twenty-four hours, but it doesn’t help. I don’t want to charm my new husband. I don’t want him as a husband at all. I want to wield the axe myself or not at all.
As if she can sense my ongoing misgivings, my mom never leaves me alone. She’s always close, or my insipid bridesmaids are, or one of my many brothers, or worst of all, my future spouse. Someone’s always around, always there, always forcing me to do the things that need to be done before the wedding ceremony.
Until, for the first time in more than a week, I’m finally alone—standing in my handcrafted Versace wedding gown, my hair twisted into complicated coils that represent the sleek twists and turns of the dragon body I’ll never actually be able to shift into myself. My wrists, my ears, my fingers, they all bear the symbols of that same dragon body that I can never take. It’s the reason we dragona women are kept in towers, hidden away in rooms, and generally sheltered from everything that life has to offer.
The males pick fights with everyone, and we’re too weak to fight off the enemies they make. So we’re stuck hiding all the time. Yes, they protect us, but it’s their fault we need them to.
I hate that females can’t shift.
I hate that the men are powerful while we are so very weak.
I hate that my dad makes all my decisions for me, and that starting tomorrow, Ragar will take over.
I hate that my only value in my family, in my marriage, and in this world comes from my ability to produce dragon eggs.
And so in this moment, my first moment alone for days and days, my final moment before becoming the oath-sworn property of a marauding, patronizing, controlling dragon shifter, I decide to do the only thing I can.
I decide to escape.
Even if I can’t possibly break free for very long. Even if they’ll catch me before the ceremony was due to start. Even if it’s the feeblest attempt ever made at taking my own life into my hands, for the first time in my life, I have to do something.
I look around the room, at the window of the stupid high rise tower I’m stuck inside, and I evaluate my options.
Dragona love tall buildings.
They love being up in the sky, in a place that’s close to the clouds and the stars. A place attackers can’t easily reach. I suppose I should clarify. Male dragona love it.
Males can shift into a powerful form, one with enormous, armored wings that will hold them aloft. But me? I’m unable to do anything. I’m only a little stronger than a normie. I’m a lot prettier, and I draw men of all kinds to me like a lodestone, but otherwise, I’m powerless.
I’ve never hated that fact more than I do right now.
But do I hate it enough?
Most normies don’t have windows or doorways from the top of skyscrapers that swing open freely. It’s considered a safety risk. But the dragona office buildings and condos all boast huge, open air patios on their lodgings and in all their conference rooms. How else would they spread their wings and launch if a negotiation goes sideways? How else would they show off, by arriving late, landing shuddering on the patio and storming into the meeting with fiery eyes and rippling muscles?
We dragona do love our dramatic moments.
I suppose my desire to run and hide instead of posturing and attacking is yet another thing that makes me a miserable failure among my kind. If I were a little more bold, a little more fierce, I might not be stuck here, but I am who I am, no matter how I may wish the opposite. I open the window and walk out onto the expansive patio, the cool New York autumn enveloping me on all sides.
Wedding guests jostle and chatter below me, shouts and squeaks and cheers rising upward and combining into white noise, like smoke wafting away from a bonfire. The feeling that I must escape only grows inside of me.
But how can I?
A knock at the door sends my heart hammering. This can’t be it. This can’t be my summons. Have I missed my chance?
“Yes?”
The door opens, a terrified head poking around the edge of it. “I’m supposed to check on you every ten minutes, per the orders from Ragar the Ruthless.” He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Are you alright?” His eyes finally find me, and they widen. “Aren’t you worried the wind might ruin your hair.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “If you were standing close enough, you’d see that even a hurricane couldn’t dislodge my hairdo.”
He laughs, and his whole face softens. He’s not a bad looking guy, for a wolf. If we had more dragona that Ragar and my father trusted, I’m sure we’d never have hired wolves to act as security. But all the dragona see me as a prize, and until I’m mated, I’m a lure to any single dragona male. So, wolves it is. “Well, now that I know you’re alright. . .” But his eyes struggle to break away.
It’s been like this my entire life. I may be completely useless, but men will do nearly anything I ask.
Except dump me, that is.
“Can you help me with something?” I ask.
His face brightens, his wolfy-yellow eyes widening. “Of course. Your wish is my command.” His lips twist a little, as if he hates himself for being so pathetic. Clearly he has a sense of humor when he’s not caught in a web of dragona charm.
“What would a normie do right now if there was a fire?”
He glances side to side. “Did you set something on fire? I heard that the female dragona rarely—”
“Nothing’s burning,” I say. “But if something did light on fire, what would they do? Would they just die up here?”
He laughs. “Buildings like this have to have fire escapes.” He glances at the patio and shudders. “Not that I’d be keen on using one from this height, especially on a windy night like this.”
A fire escape. Brilliant. “So they’d just have to cling to a little ladder all the way down to the street?”
He shrugs. “I suppose so. Places like this don’t typically have fires though, not anymore. And you’d never need to do something like that. I’m sure dozens of dragona would literally fight among themselves for the right to fly you down to safety.”
“Thank Gabe,” I say. “Because I am just terrified of heights.”
He steps toward me then, his masculine desire to protect me at all costs kicking into high gear because of my mock terror. Sometimes I really hate being me. “Don’t worry. You’re safe.”
Oh, good grief. “Yes, yes. Well, thanks for your help.” I look pointedly at the door.
“Right. Good.” He clears his throat, and looks at the door. “This is a strange question, but would you mind posing for a photo with me?”
I glance at the clock. Thirteen minutes until they’re coming to get me for the ceremony. “Uh, sure.” Whatever gets him out of here faster.
The poor werewolf’s so nervous that he nearly drops his phone trying to snap a selfie of us.
“What’s your name?” The more that men talk around me, the less awkward they become, usually, especially if they’re talking about normal things.
“Xander,” he says. “Xander Binnigas.” He beams at me.
“Right. Look, I’m happy to take the photo, Xander. I’m not great at many things, but—”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true.” He’s deep in it now, grinning like an idiot.
“Okay, well, here we go.” I snatch his phone before he can stop me, snap a photo, and hand it back. “I’d better go to the bathroom, if you don’t mind. Not much time left before I head down.”
He’s stammering and apologizing as he backs out of my room.
The second he’s gone, I peel off my wedding dress off, wincing a bit as it tears. It was ludicrously expensive, but nothing could possibly make me stand out more than that thing. I breathe a sigh of relief as I slide into the designer sweatpants and t-shirt I wore last night as pajamas. My heart hammers in my chest as I race back to the balcony.
Xander’s not wrong about the wind. It whips all around my head, practically tearing the veil away from my frightfully sprayed hair. Which reminds me—I need to get rid of the veil as well.
After chucking it into the shower and turning it on, I toss my cell phone into the toilet so they can’t track me, and put on some sensible shoes. It’s not like anyone in their right mind would run from their wedding in high heels. I throw a few critical things into a bag—maybe a few more things than I need, strictly speaking. But a girl never knows what kind of situation she might encounter, right? And having spent most of my life in what amounts to a very posh cage, I especially don’t have a clue.
Once I finally make it to the edge of the balcony, I find the iron ladder just like Xander said I would. I can hardly believe it’s true.
The adrenaline racing through my system starts to wear off about four floors down, and I panic. I’m not especially terrified of heights like I pretended to be, but I doubt any sane person would enjoy clinging to the side of a building a hundred floors above the ground.
The wind whips through my hair, as if it’s trying to punish me for saying it couldn’t ruin the hairdo. Touché, wind. You win. The ladder’s slippery, and I’m grateful I’m not in heels. One of those would have slipped off and brained someone down below for sure. And losing it would also probably have killed me. When I freeze up, too nervous to move, I think about Ragar’s patronizing face.
And how he wants me to bake him a dozen perfect little dragon eggs.
That keeps me moving.
When I panic about the fall that threatens to end me if my feet just slip a rung or two, I think about my dad ignoring my protests.
A bird flies by my head and I shriek, but I focus on the look on my mother’s face when I told her I wanted to cancel the wedding. None of them cared about what I wanted, so why should I fear for my own life? I’m sick of being a human incubator. I want to become someone who can defend myself, who can advocate for myself. I want to matter for something other than my scaly, dragona lady parts. (I’m actually not sure whether they’re scaly. But it sounds more dramatic, doesn’t it?)
I worry about every thirty seconds that someone will notice a woman slowly making her way down the side of the building, but the wedding itself saves me. As it turns out, the flashing lights on the rooftop of the building, the bands and singers and fire-eaters outside the front of the building, and all the general hoopla my parents and my in-laws set up keep anyone from paying any attention to me. It’s ironic that their own sense of importance is my saving grace.
I’ve rubbed a blister on the palm of my right hand, and my biceps are ridiculously sore, but the second my feet hit the pavement, I dart off. If I circle the building toward the front I’ll be caught immediately, so I head for the back and follow the line of the alley.
The bags of trash smell terrible, but I don’t care. A rat darts across my path, and I stifle a scream. It’s a side of New York I’ve never seen and I’m not too keen on, but freedom is too exciting. I won’t turn back over that kind of stuff.
When another rat shoots out of a trash can, running across the toe of my shoe, I change my mind. I mean, how bad could Ragar really be?
But I only backtrack a handful of steps before regaining my resolve and turning back around. About six blocks away from my wedding, I realize that I have no idea where I’m going.
I don’t even have any ideas for where I might go.
It’s fall in New York City, and all the clothing in my apartment was appropriate for my supposed honeymoon in Maui. I have no money, no wallet, and no phone. Even if I did have a phone, I have no friends I could possibly call. Any dragona I contacted would simply hand me back over to my parents.
Frankly, in my wildest dreams, I never thought I’d get this far. At any moment, I expect sweeping patrols to show up and take me back. Then an idea hits me.
Bevin’s Boutique: Secondhand Magic.
That’s the name of the business that Minerva called me from two days ago. I have no idea where it is, but if I can find it, maybe Minerva will help me. She may not agree to let me stay with her, but at least our friendship should be worth the cost of a train ticket out of town, right?
I wish I’d gotten her that flame lizard egg. I’d almost be willing to give her my first-hatched dragon egg to secure my future.
Why was I so stupidly selfish? I should’ve been nicer my entire life so that people would be willing to help me now. At least, thanks to my idiotic charm, I find a dozen men willing to help me locate Bevin’s Boutique. One of them even hands me a wad of cash. I shouldn’t take it, but beggars can’t exactly be choosy, and neither can runaways.
“Thank you.” I stuff the cash in my pocket, wondering what things precisely cost money. Mom and Dad have always paid for everything, so I’ve never paid much attention.
But now that I know the address of the place I’m headed, that cash comes in handy, paying for my cab fare. And suddenly, I’m standing in front of a bright white and blue sign that says, “Bevin’s Boutique.”
My fingers tremble a bit as I push on the door, ready to go inside and see whether Minerva really will lend a hand. Only, the door won’t budge. The lights are on inside the business, but it’s locked up.
There’s a note on the glass door. GONE NEXT DOOR FOR GLOFFEE. BACK IN 30.
What kind of business closes down for half an hour so the proprietor can get a cup of gloffee? Ugh. Well, maybe the gloffee shop won’t be too crowded. I’m not exactly an unknown figure in the supernatural world, so showing my face in a shop that every supernatural person in a one-block radius has to frequent once a day to keep the normies from recognizing them as magical doesn’t exactly seem wise, but what choice do I have?
It takes me less than thirty seconds to spot it.
Grand Central Gloffee.
Normies would see it as Grand Central Coffee, but thanks to the horrible smell, they’d all steer clear. All I smell is the wood-char odor of roasting glaffour berries. I haven’t really had it often since I don’t often go out in public, but it’s not a smell you forget. I need to find that Bevin person, and I really hope she knows how to contact Minerva.
I brace myself and duck inside, realizing belatedly that wearing my pajamas isn’t likely to make the best impression. Luckily, I don’t have to interrogate people to find the one named Bevin. No sleuthing is necessary at all.
Because Minerva’s sitting on a huge purple couch in the center of the gloffee shop, sipping from a mug the size of a soup bowl. She’s laughing and rolling her eyes in the exact same way she used to in school.
“You can’t possibly be serious.”
A tall blonde woman’s nodding vigorously. “Of course I am. You can’t go on a second date with someone without introducing him to us first.”
“You guys are like goblins, waiting to attack and rob a group of travelers,” Minerva says. “The last thing I’d do—” Her eyes shift upward, and the second they lock on mine, she freezes. “Roxana?”
I smile, and surprisingly, it’s genuine. “Hey, pal.”
When her eyes fly wide, I know she’s recognized me. “What are you doing here?” Minerva asks.
“I just couldn’t stop thinking about you after we talked the other day. How’s life going?” I walk toward the couch. “I’d love to catch up.”
Minerva’s eyes slide around me and focus on a television screen in the back corner of the shop. I follow her gaze, and realize it’s broadcasting something.
My wedding.
Where they’ve just realized that I’m missing.
I’m officially out of time.