Chapter 20
KARINA
My mother has selected ten wedding gowns, none of which suit me in the slightest.
I’ve selected only one, and it’s perfect for me. It’s been placed to the back of the pile, and I’ll be lucky if I even get a chance to try it on. Knowing my mom, I won’t.
After my secret call with Marco earlier, I got ready without interruption.
The guard was still looming out in the hallway after I’d finished dressing and putting my hair in a bun, but he didn’t say anything about his missing cellphone.
What if they search my room for it? My uncle puts trackers on everything.
I can only hope if there was one on the guard’s phone that the water disabled it.
Although I don’t know if it matters if I do get caught—the wedding is only a few days away and my fate is sealed.
Whatever punishment my uncle might dish out is worth having had one last call with Marco.
“Karina?”
My mother thrusts a corset at me and presses it against my torso. “What do you think? This would give the illusion of curves, at least.”
I roll my eyes, but before I have a chance to say anything, she changes her mind and tosses the garment at the attendant.
“Let’s do this one first,” she says, grabbing the skirt of one of the poofier dresses hanging from the portable rack. “Go, go. Try it on.”
The attendant gives me a small smile and follows me into the lavish dressing room, where she hangs the gown up on the hook.
She undoes the side zipper as I undress, and then holds it up while I step into it.
The gown is a glowy silver-white with a narrow, low-cut neckline that plunges almost to my navel.
Sheer fabric covers the opening for a sexy but modest look.
The skirt is straight and unadorned. The long sleeves are made of the same sheer fabric as the center front piece, and edged in glittery trim.
It’s a beautiful dress, but not at all to my taste.
After zipping me up, the attendant fluffs the skirt and fiddles with the fit before arranging me in front of the mirror.
“It’s very pretty,” she says.
“It’s not me at all,” I tell her.
She smiles with understanding in her eyes. “You have lots of options.”
I sigh.
My mother is delighted when I walk out and step up onto the circular platform surrounded by mirrors. She hops up from her chair and walks around me, nodding happily.
“Now, if we just get you a push-up bra or those sticky cups to give you some bosom, and maybe a crinoline underneath to puff out the skirt and make your waist look smaller…”
She fusses with the fit, too, but much more aggressively than the attendant did, all while sighing in disappointment every few seconds.
I get it. She wishes I was more classically feminine looking.
Bigger boobs, tinier waist, more padding in the hip and the rear.
An hourglass like her. I already know my appearance isn’t in line with the glitter and perfection of most high-society wives, especially those in the “business” like my family. I’m plain in comparison.
Completely average.
“Let’s try something else,” she snaps while nearly pushing me off the platform.
I try on two more, and by the time my mother selects the fourth option, I’m exhausted. My mouth is dry and I’ve no energy to speak up for myself or even form a real opinion. I’ll only be shot down, so there’s no point anyway.
The attendant places a simple pearl and crystal tiara on my head and smiles. “Lovely.”
I smile back. “Oh gosh, how did you know?”
I’d glanced at this tiara a time or two while my mother was pulling me along. It’s simple yet elegant and would go perfectly with the kind of Regency style of wedding dress I’ve always dreamed about. Empire waist, ivory cream satin, lace edging. And this little tiara.
“I saw you looking at it. You had ‘the look’ in your eyes.” She winks. “Anyway, it doesn’t fit any of these dresses quite right, but I thought you might like to try it on.”
My throat tightens. “Thank you.”
It’s not just the dream dress that I’ve imagined, either. It was my groom, too: someone who would be in love with me, not with the power I could bring—power for him alone, of course. None for me.
I let out a sigh of frustration. The bodice of the dress I’m currently wearing is covered in small white satin bows, each with a crystal in the center.
Similar bows are dotted all over the skirt, with pale pink satin ribbons draped between them like bunting.
It looks like something a ten-year-old would wish for while watching Cinderella. Ick.
“Oh, that isn’t at all what I thought it would be. Go take it off and try the next one.” My mother waves a hand for me to skip the podium and return to the dressing room. “And get rid of that thing on your head. This isn’t the Miss America pageant. I don’t want to see it again.”
Pressing my lips together in a hard line, I nod. Meanwhile, my soul is packing up and hightailing it out of my body. I’m about to turn around when I hear a familiar voice say,
“She’s going to try on this one.”
Pietro. Shit. My heart stutters as I turn around slowly, the blood draining from my face. Pietro walks toward us with a very full gown draped over his arms.
“What are you doing here?” my mother gasps. “It’s bad luck for the groom to see the dress before the wedding!”
He locks eyes with me, his expression chilly, before he looks over the dress I’m wearing and frowns. I can’t help but wonder if his distaste is aimed at the dress or at me.
“I don’t believe in those silly superstitions. And why would I worry about luck, when I make my own? Besides, it’s good for Karina to know my tastes and preferences before we’re married, that way she can be sure to choose clothes that will please me.”
The attendant steps back. I’d love to know what she’s thinking. That’s he’s an asshole? Toxic masculinity runs strong in this one? She’s feeling sorry for me, I’m sure of that.
“Put her in this,” he tells the attendant, passing her the dress he’s holding. “I want her hair down. And put some lipstick on her. This isn’t a funeral, Karina.”
Oh, but to me it is. Biting back my retort, I force my stride to be as dignified as possible as I walk back to the dressing room. Avoiding the mirror while I get dressed in the gown Pietro picked out, I focus on my breathing and try to quell the familiar panic growing in my gut.
The attendant zips me up. “Here we go. What do you think?”
She encourages me to look in the mirror, but I hesitate. The dress is terribly heavy and I didn’t need to put it on to know that it’s an impractically frothy concoction of layers and bling.
But I do look, and immediately regret it.
The strapless, heart-shaped bodice is tight against my torso while the skirt is an explosion of layer upon hideous layer of tulle and silk.
The hem of each layer is edged with Swarovski crystals—Pietro’s favorite—that flash rainbow colors when I move.
The skirts are so full that they rise up around the waist of the bodice, and no matter how I press them down, they just pop back up again.
If anyone’s died by suffocation from a wedding dress, it was probably in one of these.
Holding my emotions in check, I stand dutifully while the attendant fiddles with my hair, and then hands me a tube of red gloss to put on my lips.
“Let’s get this over with,” I say blandly.
And then find that I can barely move. The dress is so heavy, the weight of the skirt feels as if it will pull the bodice straight down to my hips.
The attendant keeps fluffing while I walk and supports me as I step up on the pedestal.
My body heats under the lights, the layers creating an airtight bubble of hot satin and silk.
Pietro makes a slow circle around me, nodding in satisfaction. “This is the one. We’re done here.”
“I’ll look like the cake.” My tone is flat.
“The cake is the best part,” he says.
Ugh. Was that a compliment? Did he mean—I don’t want to think about it.
Watching him from the corner of my eye, I listen as he instructs the attendant on how to take in the dress. Make the bodice more formfitting. Measure me for a push-up bra for some cleavage. Add another crinoline to the skirt poof. Oh God, I really am going to suffocate.
“It’s beautiful, Pietro,” my mom gushes. “Really beautiful.”
“It’s heavy,” I whisper to her. “And it itches.”
“Karina,” she hisses under her breath. “Do you have any idea what this dress costs? Will it kill you to wear it for a couple of hours to make your husband happy?”
Ah, there it is. Yet another reminder of my purpose in life. To make my husband happy.
Instead of responding, I lift the skirts as best as I can and waddle back to the dressing room. The attendant is nowhere to be seen, so I let myself in to the cavernous room and attempt to sit on the plush settee for a moment to get myself together.
But I can’t. The froth poofs up around my face as I try to lower myself onto the seat, blocking my view and disorienting me.
Batting uselessly at the layers, I’m about to shout for help when someone takes my hand and guides me gently down so I can sit.
When I look up to thank the attendant, my jaw drops.
Standing before me is my Romeo.
“Marco.” My mind and body come to life. “What are you doing here?”
His self-assured smirk almost undoes me completely. “I came to see this…statement piece you’re wearing.”
Carefully batting down more of the fabric, he kneels next to me and takes my hands in his. Amusement shines in his eyes, but I know he’s not laughing at me. Though I wouldn’t blame him if he was.
“You can’t be here,” I tell him worriedly. “You’ll get caught. We’ll both be in trouble.”
“The owner is an old friend. Your entourage is currently being schmoozed with champagne and caviar to buy us some time.”
I lean my forehead against his, staring into his eyes. “I’m glad you came,” I whisper.
My prince. Here to rescue me.
“I’m just glad I’m here to help you find your way out of this monstrosity.”
So many things run through my mind at that comment.
His, too. His expression turns heated as he tucks a stray wisp of hair behind my ear.
Helping me stand again, he turns me to face the mirror.
My chest grows heavy, my breath picking up as he starts to undo the hook-and-eye closures.
One by one, the bindings pop free, and then the half-zipper comes down too.
The bodice pops forward, exposing my bare breasts.
For a second, I have the urge to cover up with my arms, but then I remember.
This is Marco. And I don’t want to hide a single thing from him.
His nails lightly rake the back of my neck as he moves my hair to one side.
My nipples peak in response, clearly visible in the mirror.
Marco’s eyes rivet to my reflection in the mirror and then he loosens the dress fully and helps me step out of it.
He gathers the dress to the side and stands behind me again.
Hands on my shoulders, palms smoothing down my arms and back up again as he leans in to kiss the side of my neck.
“Marco.” I practically moan his name, my brain awash in the instant, swoony feelings his touch always causes.
“You didn’t get any pleasure this morning,” he whispers. “Trust me when I tell you that I will make up for it a hundred times over.”
I wish that was true. That we had the time to make it happen. My face goes hot again at the mention of what we did on the stolen phone.
Slowly massaging my neck between his kisses, he trails his fingers down my spine and then palms my ass.
My breasts ache for his touch and it’s hard not to squirm.
Just as I’m about to turn around and press myself into him, he backs up and retrieves my clothes.
Swallowing down my disappointment, I step into the skirt he holds for me.
Our eyes catch in the mirror as he zips it up the back.
Emotions flood me. I’m overwhelmed and devastated at the same time. I want him, but I can’t have him. Not now, not ever. But I need him to know—
“I love you,” I tell his reflection. It’s just a little bit easier to say it this way, looking in his eyes through the mirror instead of mere inches away.
Marco goes still. My heart sinks and floats simultaneously, because even if he doesn’t feel the same—even if saying the words was a misstep—they felt right, and I don’t regret a single syllable. At least now he knows. I won’t spend the rest of my life wishing I’d told him.
He spins me and pulls me against him, pressing my bare breasts into the hardness of his chest. As I look up at him, he dips his head and takes my lips, kissing me until I’m breathless and dizzy and so in love, my heart feels like it might give out.
“I have to go,” he whispers against my lips. “Wait for me at the end of your street at midnight.”
“I can’t.”
“Try, Karina.”
With that, he kisses me one last time before walking through the curtain that separates the private dressing room from the rest of the rooms in the back. And then he’s gone.
Try, Karina. His words echo in my mind.
I don’t know how the hell I’m going to get away with it, but I’ll do my best—I’m going to try. I did steal and destroy a cellphone today, after all.
Who am I becoming?
Turning again to the mirror, I almost don’t recognize myself. Maybe this is what love does to you. Makes you stronger and more determined than you ever thought possible.
Or maybe just completely, utterly reckless.