Chapter 7 Lily
LILY
“A Christmas wedding,” I whisper, staring at the way this traditional dress transforms on my body under the tailor’s hands.
The bodice hugs me like a second skin—ivory satin overlaid with intricate lace and delicate beadwork that catches the light every time I breathe.
The tailor works with nimble precision, tugging the back tighter so the corset curves to my shape, pulling in my already small waist until it feels impossibly small.
My breasts—never anything extraordinary—suddenly look fuller, lifted high by the structured boning. It makes me stand taller, forces my shoulders back as if the gown knows exactly how it wants me to be seen.
The skirt cascades from the fitted bodice in soft, weightless folds of silk, and with a quiet swish of fabric the slit is adjusted, opening just enough to reveal the length of my leg with every shift of my hips.
When I glance down, the creamy fabric pools on the floor around my feet like melted candle wax.
“According to the pictures we will get tomorrow, the ceremony was at St. Ignatius,” Nadia continues, ticking each item off her list without looking up.
“An intimate reception full of cocktails and Christmas cheer at the Plaza. Guest list capped at fifty. Flowers: dusty blue and white roses, along with lilac. The colors of the wedding were along that theme but with hints of gold.”
“Right, and because people care about details,” Gwen chimes in from the corner, bouncing Toni on her knee, “the cake was a vanilla cake with buttercream, and there is a slice in the freezer that you two are saving for your one-year anniversary.”
“That’s so romantic,” I murmur, staring down at the diamond-studded choker at my throat. Even that feels like it’s choking me, like the whole room is aware of me and this ridiculous dress.
“Nik and I did it,” Gwen says, laughing softly, “but Guinness chocolate cake is not good a year later. He woke the baker up at the crack of dawn and made him remake the cake because I was postpartum and cried when the cake tasted bad.”
“So no getting pregnant before the one-year anniversary,” I nod quickly, smoothing a hand over the intricate embellishments on my bodice. My fingertips linger there longer than they should, partly to distract myself from the heat climbing my neck. “Got it.”
“No getting pregnant at all,” Nadia corrects sharply, making eye contact with me through the mirror.
“I—I mean it’s just a wedding for show,” I blurt out before I can think better of it, the words tripping over themselves like they’re trying to escape. “There won’t be any… baby-making.”
Nadia bursts out laughing, Gwen following suit, her hand flying up to cover Toni’s ears.
“I’m sorry, did I not just walk in on you humping his leg?”
“That wasn’t me! I was— I was baking biscuits and then he—”
“Pinned you against the counter and dry-humped you into submission?”
The tailor actually snorts behind me, and I whirl around to Gwen, horrified. “Gwen!”
“Yeah, Gwen,” Nadia groans, rubbing a hand down her face. “Please stop talking about my brother in sexual positions.”
“Nadia, are you blind?” Gwen shrieks. “They are practically fucking every time they look at each other!”
“We are not!”
I can feel my whole body flush as their words echo in my ears.
My face is hot, my scalp prickling under the pins holding my hair back, and suddenly I’m very aware of how much bare skin this dress leaves exposed.
The tailor fussing around my waist only makes it worse; I feel like I’ve been caught in a spotlight.
My reflection in the mirror stares back at me: the lace, the slit, the curve of my body that the gown refuses to hide. And the only thing I can think about is Aleksandr walking into this room—into this exact moment—while Gwen is still talking about dry humping.
It’s mortifying.
I cross my arms tightly over my chest, even though the bodice doesn’t allow much movement, and mutter, “This conversation is the reason people elope.”
“Sweetheart,” Gwen says, grinning at me like a cat, “if Aleksandr was five minutes earlier, none of us would be sitting here. You’d be on the counter again, and Toni would have to learn a whole new vocabulary.”
I slap both hands over my face, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole, veil and all.
“Arms down, please,” the tailor commands, tugging lightly at my wrists.
“Sorry,” I mutter, my voice muffled through my palms. I lower my arms as fast as I can, but the heat in my ears is a dead giveaway.
“Stand still,” the tailor warns gently, fussing with the illusion sleeves, smoothing them so they lie perfectly across my shoulders and arms.
“Look,” Nadia says finally, setting the memo pad aside and walking toward me with that same cool confidence she carries everywhere. She plants her hands on her hips like she’s getting ready to deliver a verdict. “You like my brother.”
My head jerks around, but the tailor clamps his hands firmly on my shoulders, forcing me to face forward and watch everything play out in the mirror.
“It was a high school crush,” I say, eyes wide, panicked, as if that explains everything. Gwen uncovers Toni’s ears, but rolls her eyes.
“A high school crush that survived all four years of college and somehow managed to hang on for another four years of adulthood?” Nadia arches a brow at me in the reflection.
“It’s… like a low humming crush in the background,” I mumble, staring down at my hands like they hold the answers. “I’ve liked other people.”
“Not as much as you like Aleksandr,” Gwen pipes up, rocking Toni on her knee like she’s watching a drama unfold on stage.
“Gwen!” I nearly squeak her name.
She shrugs, unrepentant. “I call it like I see it.”
“Look,” Nadia says again, her voice softening just a touch, though her eyes remain razor sharp. “Aleksandr likes you, too.”
I huff out a breath, my reflection betraying every thought I’m trying so hard to bury, because I know. I really know that he likes me. The whole caveman ‘you are mine’ thing kind of got me up to speed on that. Pretty sure he’s been liking me for as long as I’ve liked him.
“That’s cool,” I say, my voice tilting upward like everything I say is a question, but I force myself to keep going. “But this wedding is fake. It’s not real, so this doesn’t count.”
“Doesn’t count?” Gwen snorts, almost choking on her laugh. “Aleksandr planned this entire wedding himself.”
“What?”
“If I planned this wedding the way I wanted,” Gwen says, scooping up a little red toy car and running it along the floor to entertain Toni, “the colors would have been blush, champagne, and green. All soft and pretty. Not saying dusty blue and lilac aren’t beautiful colors…
” She shrugs as if the difference doesn’t matter, but I can hear the faint irritation.
“I mean, purple, blue, and yellow are my favorite colors,” I murmur, staring at my reflection, my voice trailing as if it’s lost somewhere between my head and my heart.
I try to sound casual, but my ears have been ringing since the second Nadia mentioned those exact colors—dusty blue, lilac, and gold—because those are not just pretty.
Those are perfect.
They’re the exact palette from the last wedding my mother planned before she died giving birth to me.
I’ve seen the photographs in old albums: the invitations she drafted, the fabric swatches tucked neatly into a binder.
She was still working while pregnant, and those colors were everywhere.
It was the last wedding she ever touched.
And somehow… Aleksandr picked them.
I bite the inside of my cheek, my chest tightening with a strange, dizzy mix of grief and something dangerously close to hope. Whatever secret power Aleksandr has to reach into corners of my life I never talk about—to pull out the small things that matter—is terrifying. And perfect.
He knows me.
Knows me in a way that no one else does, like he’s been quietly watching and listening since we were kids, cataloguing every detail while the rest of the world forgot.
I mean, Nadia should know. She’s my best friend.
But she hates this kind of thing. She never cared about flowers or color palettes.
She knows I like girly things, sure—but not this.
Not the specific things I used to linger on when I was little, flipping through my mother’s binders, tracing those fabric swatches with my fingertips like touching them could bring her back.
“I picked out a huge princess gown for you,” Nadia says suddenly, breaking through my thoughts.
She comes to stand beside me, hands on her hips, her reflection sharp in the mirror.
“Cinderella theme. Layers of tulle. You would have looked like a frosted cupcake. And Aleksandr took one look at it and said no.”
She lets that sink in, then adds, “He said it was wrong for you. That you’d hate it. And that you’d like this one better. ” Her eyes meet mine in the glass, steady and assessing. “Which I don’t understand because you are a total princess girl, but I mean the dress is gorgeous.”
“And the location?” I choke.
“My choice,” Gwen smiles down at Toni, pulling him onto her lap. “But he did drive all the way to Harlem to get that cake for you.”
“Is it from Carrot Top?” I whisper looking at Nadia through the mirror.
“Yeah, that shop your mom loved right?” She turns to Gwen and smiles. “Lily gets her birthday cake from there every year.”
“Oh, yeah,” Gwen nods, smiling as the sarcasm drips in her tone. “This so fake wedding.”
I half-listen, half-watch myself in the mirror. The dress feels like me, like something my mother would have picked for a client she really liked. Aleksandr picked everything so perfect I feel like I have never seen him clearly.