Me, Sparrow Raynes. Twenty-two. The child of Abe and Robyn Raynes. An avid runner. A tomboy. A lover of blueberry pancakes, hot chocolate, sweet summer air and unapologetic boyfriend jeans. That kid. The girl who sat in the first row of every class and fiddled with her lunch box during school breaks because no one wanted to hang out with her. The woman who never cared about fashion. The poor chick who thought money was overrated, glitzy cars equaled small dicks, and that happiness was Irish stew and Kitchen Cutthroat reruns under the covers.

This ring belonged to someone else. A Real Housewife of Whatever-suburb. A trophy bride of certain tastes and status. A girl who knew who Valentino was and why his dresses were so goddamned expensive.

Not. Me.

I turned off the faucet and took a deep breath, running my fingers over my incredibly stiff hair.

“Just deal with it,” I prompted myself quietly. Marrying a wealthy man who was known as one of the most sought-after bachelors in Boston was hardly considered a punishment. “Not your choice, but roll with the plan.”

I closed my eyes and shook my head. First-World problem or not, the last thing I needed was for him to take care of me. A soft knock on the bathroom door made me swivel my head in its direction. Sherry’s face, plastered with makeup and a fake smile, peeked through the cracked door.

“Mr. Brennan’s here to see you,” she announced in her syrupy-sweet, insincere voice.

“It’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding,” I gritted out, clenching my fists together and allowing the monstrous ring to dig into my flesh. The pain was a welcome distraction.

“Trust me, it’s even worse luck to piss off your future husband.” I heard his iron-cold tenor cutting through the air outside the door.

I took a step back, hugging myself protectively. The door swung open, and he stepped inside, looking so much bigger than life and any of the pep talks I kept drilling into my head.

He wore a formal black three-piece suit and leather wingtips. He owned the small bathroom, sucking all air and my presence out of it. Suddenly, I felt even smaller than my already tiny frame. His icy glare peeled my walls of defense, exposing me for what I really was—a sweltering ball of nerves.

“Unfold your arms so I can see you,” Brennan ordered sharply.

I did as I was told, not out of respect, but out of fear. My arms hung at my sides as I gulped hard. He’d never looked twice at me before. Not in the eighteen years we lived in the same neighborhood or in the last ten days. This was the first time he’d acknowledged my existence this personally. The day of our wedding.

“You look beautiful.” His tone was detached.

I knew the dress was spectacular. Phrases like “mermaid silhouette” and “Queen Anne neckline” flew in my direction when I first tried it on at the bridal shop. Not that I chose it myself. Joe, the stylist, got his orders directly from my dear future husband. So did Sherry and the hair stylist whose name I couldn’t remember and even the woman who chose my jewelry for the event. I had no say about anything when it came to this wedding. Just as well, as I wasn’t exactly Bridezilla. I wanted this wedding like a bad case of gonorrhea.

“Thank you,” I finally managed to reply and despite my simmering rage, felt oddly compelled to reciprocate with, “You look nice, too.”

“How can you tell? You haven’t looked at me once since I stepped into the room.” Brennan’s voice was frosty and unapproachable, but it didn’t sound like he cared.

I gingerly lifted my chin and dragged my gaze to meet his eyes, every muscle in my face tightening as I watched him. “Very nice,” I repeated, not a trace of sincerity in my voice.

I heard Sherry fussing over God knows what in the other room and Joe talking on the phone, or at least pretending to. Meanwhile, the hair stylist and Connor, the bodyguard who followed me everywhere, were silent, which was coincidentally louder than any of Sherry and Joe’s futile attempts to sound busy. The buzz of a disaster rang between my ears.

He has a troubled past.

A disastrous future.

And I’m about to become a part of his present, whether I like it or not.

“Connor, Sherry, everyone—get the fuck out,” my groom ordered as he continued staring me down through narrowed eyes.

I twisted my fingers together and felt my mouth drying up. This wasn’t me. The insecure, little Mary-Sue wasn’t the Sparrow I had built over the years. But he was dangerous, and I was giving him trouble.

I was giving him trouble because ten days ago, completely out of the blue, he dragged me out of my house (a guy who was no more than a distant childhood memory in an expensive suit and a shady reputation) and threw me into his luxurious penthouse and announced (two days after he left me there with nothing and no one but a bodyguard and a number for a takeout joint) that we were going to get married.