18. Juliette
Juliette
“R ise and shine, blushing bride!”
Wynter’s cheery voice woke me up and I let out a frustrated groan. Not even bothering to answer her or even open my eyelids, I turned onto my stomach and buried my head under the pillow.
“Come on,” Davina urged. “We don’t have all day. Your father threatened to come here and dress you himself if we don’t get you ready on time. So get your ass out of bed.”
“That’d be awkward as fuck,” I mumbled, my voice muffled against the pillow.
“I don’t think he was joking, Jules,” Ivy chimed in.
Someone snatched the pillow off my head and threw it across the hotel floor. I turned to my side and popped open an eyelid to find my girlfriends standing there all dressed up as bridesmaids.
“You look like you’re getting ready to go to the circus,” I hissed.
“Tell me about it,” Emory grumbled. “You’re married already. Why in the fuck do I need to wear a dress now?”
My lips curved despite this fucked-up situation. Truthfully, they didn’t look bad. All four of them wore blue minidresses. Wynter’s front looked like she stuck a balloon into it, but other than that, she looked fabulous too.
A knocked-up bridesmaid , I snickered silently. There had to be bad luck in that. Right?
“Here, have a drink.” Ivy shoved a champagne flute in my face with a grin. “It helps with nerves.”
Ugh, I wanted to roll over and hide. Under the bed. In the bathroom. Anywhere, but here.
Pushing the glass of champagne out of my face, I said, “No, thank you. Alcohol got me into this fucking mess. So no more of that shit for me.”
Silence followed. Glances were shared.
They didn’t believe me. It didn’t matter. I would never touch alcohol again. Things could have ended badly that night. Really, really badly.
I rolled out of bed, grinding my molars and keeping my temper in check. Rage blistered through my veins, demanding I explode. But I’d be a “good” daughter for once and not cause a scene. Maybe my father would finally be proud of me.
Passing all the girls on my way to the bathroom, I ignored their glances and their enthusiasm. Their heels clicked against the hardwood, following me to the bathroom and I quickly locked the door. I would at least shower on my own.
“Hey, let us help you,” Wynter protested through the keyhole.
“I can shower myself,” I retorted back, turning the shower on. “I’ve been doing it for years in case you didn’t know.”
I stepped in the cold shower and let the water cool my rage, until it turned too hot which ended up scalding my skin. I winced but didn’t adjust the temperature. Maybe this would wash off my filth. My sins.
A shudder rolled through me, along with the panic that was suffocating me.
If Dante forced himself on me tonight, I didn’t think I would be able to handle it. Images flashed through my mind.
Ugly. Dirty. Painful. Shameful.
I cranked the heat of the water by a few more degrees and closed my eyes, letting it burn my skin. This had to be what hell felt like.
By the time I was done and dry, my skin was red and my face flushed.
I fully expected to see blisters on my skin, but my expression in the mirror reflected the same old me.
Clear skin, slightly pink from the hot shower.
Auburn hair soaking wet, droplets of water at the tips.
High cheekbones. And the same blue eyes with dark circles under them, evidence of my fatigue.
As I stepped out of the bathroom, I fully expected my bridesmaids to be gone. They weren’t. They sat on the bed, quietly, their eyes locked on me and frozen smiles on their faces.
“We have to be ready in thirty minutes,” Wynter announced calmly. “Or Uncle Liam is taking over.”
No reply.
I walked past them and toward the wedding dress someone else had picked out that hung over the door by the tall standing mirror.
“Jules—” Wynter attempted softly, but I was quick to react.
“Please don’t,” I warned, my tone sharp.
“Let’s not throw cheerleading bullcrap into the mix and pretend this is what I want.
” My cousin flinched and a flicker of regret passed through me.
Being the bitch that I was, I didn’t stop there.
“You’re fine with being manhandled. I’m not. Dante is not what I wanted.”
“That’s not fair,” Davina chimed in, her gaze narrowed on me. “You got married all on your own. Liam wants it formalized and we’re here to help. So don’t you fucking dare act like this is because of any of us.”
We stared at each other in thick silence. Resentful silence. Bottom line was that Davina was right. I knew it; they knew it. Alas, it didn’t make this situation better. If anything, it made it worse because it made me hate myself even more.
And there was plenty of self-hate going around.
Davina’s brows shot up, challenging me to contradict her. “Fine, tell me where you want me.”
A terse nod by my stepmother. Stepmother . This really has to be what hell feels like , I thought for the second time that morning.
Today for the first time, though, she was actually acting like a stepmother. Up until now, she was always just my friend.
“Good,” she said calmly, offering me a smile. As if she knew this was hard for me, but promised it’d be better. It wouldn’t be. Nobody knew how deep my issues ran. “Now, let’s do your hair and makeup first.”
A few beats passed. Another nod as I swallowed the thickening lump in my throat. I sucked in a lungful of air, then padded across the floor to the dresser. Davina quickly typed on her phone and the knock sounded on the door the next second.
Emory jumped up and rushed to open the door.
“Here is the makeup artist and stylist,” she announced.
“Ummm, I don’t think you need me. I’m gonna just—” Wynter, Davina, and Ivy gave her curious looks, but I just shrugged.
It didn’t matter whether she was here or out there.
I’d still be forced to be in the same position.
“Yeah, okay. I’ll see you later,” she murmured, then disappeared.
The door shut behind her with a soft click, and I watched in tense silence as the makeup artist, hairstylist, and seamstress set themselves up. Next thing I knew, there was poking, prodding, and preparing. I felt like an animal being readied for the slaughter.
My scalp protested at the tugs. My skin stung as makeup was applied.
The room was uncomfortably quiet, which was a novelty.
For me and my friends at least. Next I was shoved into a corset, then the wedding dress full of silk, lace, and shit that I would have never regularly worn.
The seamstress slid a lace garter up my thigh and I clenched my jaw, swallowing the words that burned at the tip of my tongue.
The seamstress bolted upright and clapped her hands, making me jump out of my skin.
“All finished!” she exclaimed, like it was the biggest achievement of her life. “Magnifique!”
A string of French words followed, though by the look on all our faces, it was clear, none of us understood a single word after magnifique and stared at her blankly. I couldn’t stop an eye roll. Nobody here was French, so I wasn’t sure why she switched languages.
She paused for a moment, as if expecting a response.
“Thanks,” I mumbled as my chest tightened.
It was getting harder to breathe. So I focused on the dressmaker.
She was younger than I’d initially thought.
Her eyes were brown and light freckles covered her nose and cheeks.
Her golden hair was pulled up in a slick, fashionable ponytail. “Are you really French?”
She kneeled, busying herself with this fancy dress. She was efficient and seemed to know what she was doing. “Yes, I am.”
Her English was perfect. No accent at all.
“What’s your name?”
“Billie Swan.”
I frowned. Maybe she was pulling my leg. “That name doesn’t sound French. And when you speak English, there’s no accent.”
She shrugged as she busied herself fixing the hem of my wedding dress.
A needle and thread in her hand, I watched her fingers expertly push into the material, disappear and then reappear.
With each stitch, the tightness in my chest loosened.
“My mother was American. After she died, mon père”—I assumed that meant father…
my French was virtually non-existent—“he packed us up and moved us back to France.”
She stood up, eyeing me critically as if searching for faults. There were so many; I wondered if she could see them. Then she beamed. “You’re ready and the dress fits you perfectly.”
Her brown eyes met mine, shining with self-satisfaction. “ Je te souhaite tout le meilleur pour ton mariage .” When I gave her a blank look, she added, “Best wishes for your wedding.”
I sighed. I’d need all the good luck I could get.
“You look beautiful,” Davina cooed, clasping her hands together. I had forgotten about my friends.
“Very beautiful,” Wynter agreed, padding over to me and giving me a small smile.
I was always the bad-tempered troublemaker.
Wynter was always the peacemaker. My cousin lost herself in her sports.
Whatever she lacked in affection from family, she got it from ice-skating.
And me… I was left somewhere in between missing Dad, Killian, and Aunt Aisling’s affection while trying to find myself.
Whenever I acted out, Dad and Killian came to deal with me. It was exactly the result I needed and wanted. But then, Travis, Brandon, and Sam happened. That had left me alone. The shame was too great. The blame was a self-inflicted wound that kept festering.
“Look.” My cousin’s voice interrupted my trip down memory lane.
With gentle hands on my shoulders, Wynter spun me around to face the full-length mirror before I could protest. My eyes met my reflection and a small gasp tore from my lips. I didn’t recognize myself. I looked beautiful and innocent.
Except, I was neither.
My hair was fashioned into a long French braid with diamonds weaved into it. The white dress mocked my virginal status that was stolen from me. It was an off-the-shoulder corset dress with crystal trim around the top and lace and flowers adorning the bottom part that stretched to the ground.
Heat prickled my skin. Panic spread through my veins. My breaths came out harsher.
“Breathe, Jules,” Wynter murmured softly.
“We can always kill him,” Ivy suggested. Unhelpfully. “Although that might make Wynter’s relationship with her husband awkward.”
Wynter rolled her eyes. “We’re not killing Dante. They are already married. This is just Uncle Liam giving his approval.”
I stopped listening to them. It didn’t matter what this was, I knew where it led. Tonight. In the same bed.
Don’t think about that , I scolded myself.
Dante was hot as sin. Attraction was definitely there. I didn’t panic when we had sex the other night. Of course, I couldn’t remember that night at all. In fact, Dante hadn’t exactly said we had sex, so maybe we never went that far.
Fuck!
My gaze shifted from my reflection to the window. Clear blue skies. The sun was shining. Even birds chirped. Calmness engulfed me. I’d make it through this. I’d made it through worse and survived.
If only I knew whether I believed myself.
Feigning a smile, I smoothed down the dress and stepped off the box. My heart thundered wildly. I’d killed men, yet this terrified me more. Committing to Dante. Trusting him with my life and my secrets.
Because I knew one thing for sure, they were bound to come out.
The door swung open and Emory was back. The smile on her face resembled my own. It was fake as shit, but there was something else there. Deep in her eyes so similar to her brothers.
It almost looked like… guilt.
“It’s time. The priest is waiting downstairs,” she announced, her voice trembling.
I mustered a smile. “Let’s get married, then.”