Stealing The Groom For Sweet Revenge

The grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel had been transformed in hours. The Cantu PR machine worked flawlessly.

Elizabeth sat in the bridal suite. She wore a sleek, minimalist silk gown that clung to her curves, a stark contrast to the ruffled monstrosity Meredith had picked out for her original wedding.

The heavy oak door clicked shut. Dorian walked in. He wore a tailored black tuxedo that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. He waved a hand, and the makeup artists scrambled out of the room.

He walked up behind her. Their eyes met in the vanity mirror.

Dorian placed his large hands on the back of her chair. He leaned down, his breath warm against her neck. "Were you drugged last night?"

Elizabeth didn't look away from his reflection. "Meredith's doing."

Dorian chuckled. It was a dark, appreciative sound. "You used her trap to corner me. Impressive."

Elizabeth stood up and turned to face him. "If you didn't want to be cornered, you could have told your grandmother no."

The air between them thickened. The space felt too small.

The wedding march began to play through the speakers.

Elizabeth walked down the aisle on the arm of her adoptive father, Kerr Goodwin. Kerr's face was pale and tight. He had planned to control the main branch of the Cantu family through Acey. Now, he was handing her over to the unpredictable outcast.

They reached the altar. Kerr shoved her hand toward Dorian and forced a sickeningly sweet smile for the cameras.

Dorian took her hand. His grip was firm, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.

The priest read the vows. They stood face to face, the picture of a couple fighting for their forbidden love.

"I do," Dorian said. His voice was steady, his eyes locked onto hers, stripping away her defenses.

"I do," Elizabeth replied, her voice equally cold and resolute.

Dorian pulled a ring from his pocket. He slid a massive, flawless emerald cut diamond onto her ring finger. The weight of it felt like a shackle.

At the reception, they played their parts perfectly. They smiled at the whispering guests. Dorian kept his hand on the small of her back, his fingers pressing into her spine.

Hours later, the stretched Lincoln town car pulled up to a sleek glass tower in Tribeca.

The private elevator opened directly into a massive penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the glittering Manhattan skyline.

Elizabeth kicked off her heels the moment the doors closed. She walked into the living room, her feet sinking into the dark rug.

Dorian pulled off his bowtie. He walked to the marble bar, poured two glasses of neat whiskey, and handed her one.

Elizabeth took the heavy crystal glass. "Let's set the rules. Separate bedrooms. Financial independence. We don't interfere in each other's private lives."

Dorian leaned against the bar. He took a sip of his whiskey, his eyes tracking the movement of her throat as she swallowed.

"You are Mrs. Underwood now," Dorian said, his voice dropping an octave. "You will attend the required events. You will play the part. You will not embarrass me."

Elizabeth let out a short, mocking laugh. "You're on the front page of the Post every other week with a different model. I think you handle the embarrassing part just fine."

Dorian set his glass down with a sharp clink. He closed the distance between them in two long strides, backing her up against the edge of the marble bar.

He planted his hands on the counter on either side of her hips, trapping her. His chest brushed against hers.

"Don't get too smart, Elizabeth," he warned, his voice a low rumble.

Elizabeth didn't flinch. She reached up, grabbed the lapels of his tuxedo jacket, and pulled him an inch closer.

"Keep your hands to yourself, Dorian," she whispered, "and I'll be the perfect wife."