Chapter 44 Mara
MARA
ONE MONTH LATER
The boutique smells like flowers that have been dying beautifully for hours.
Someone sprayed perfume in the air before we arrived, the kind that tries too hard to smell like roses.
It lingers over the racks of white and ivory, over the mirrored walls, over everything I don’t want to touch.
The sound of hangers sliding across metal is soft and constant, like the whisper of fabric trying to convince itself it’s special.
Valentina moves through the space with practiced ease, all poise and quiet grace. Her mother-in-law energy could tame lions. Or stylists.
Alessia, on the other hand, refused to come the second she heard Orlo’s mother would be there. Smart woman. She texted me before we walked in.
Alessia
If she says the word “classic” more than twice, pretend to faint.
I might, actually.
Orlo’s mother, Vera Chernov, stands at the center of it all—tall, sharp, wrapped in fur even though we’re indoors. Her accent cuts every word into perfect shapes.
“We will start with silhouettes,” she says, as if commanding a boardroom. “Mara, dear, do you prefer structure or fluidity?”
I blink at her reflection in the mirror. “I’m sorry?”
She waves a jeweled hand. “The dress. You must know your own essence.”
Essence. I almost laugh. I barely know where I am half the time.
Valentina saves me. “Something light. Simple. Elegant.”
“Of course,” Vera replies, not listening. “Bring the couture rack.”
A woman in black scurries off. Another wheels in a line of dresses that look like ghosts waiting to be chosen.
Vera claps once, delighted. “Try these. We’ll see what speaks to you.”
I want to say none of them, but Valentina’s hand finds the small of my back. A gentle push, a reminder that resistance here is a losing game.
So I nod. “Sure.”
The attendant leads me behind a curtain into a fitting area that smells like steamed silk and nerves. I change slowly, the fabric cool against my skin, the lace whispering as it slides over my shoulders. My reflection stares back: pale, tired, wrong.
When I step out, the room goes quiet.
Vera smiles. “It’s divine.”
Valentina’s expression softens. “You look beautiful, Mara.”
Beautiful. The word should mean something. It doesn’t.
I look at myself in the mirror—the fitted bodice, the long train, the delicate embroidery catching the light—and I feel nothing. No spark. No warmth. Just the ache of pretending.
Vera circles me like an appraiser. “It flatters your figure. A touch more tailoring at the waist, perhaps. You see, Valentina? She has the Folonari posture. Very rare. Shoulders set back, chin high. Regal.”
Valentina murmurs something polite. I keep my eyes on my reflection, watching my mouth press into a thin line.
“Do you like it?” Vera asks.
I open my mouth. The wrong answer hovers on my tongue. It’s perfect.
Instead, “I don’t know.”
She frowns, confused. “You don’t know?”
“It’s…fine,” I say, voice too small. “They’re all fine.”
Vera exhales through her nose, that elegant kind of disappointment people with power perfect. “Maybe the next one will speak to you better.”
The attendant helps me change again. And again. Silk. Satin. Organza. Layers upon layers of everything I can’t feel.
Every dress blurs into the next. Every reflection looks the same: a stranger dressed in expectation. By the fifth gown, the room starts to tilt.
Vera’s talking again. Something about tradition, about family honor, about elegance that endures. Valentina tries to steer the conversation toward hemlines and fabric weights, but it’s all background noise.
The lights are too bright. My throat feels tight. I catch sight of myself in the mirror again—pale skin, hollow eyes, white fabric swallowing me whole—and suddenly I can’t breathe.
The attendant asks if I’m all right. I nod. Lie.
Valentina’s watching me now. Her expression shifts, soft concern under composure.
“Maybe we should take a break.”
“I’m fine,” I say, too quickly.
Vera waves a hand. “Nonsense. She’s radiant. The girl is simply overwhelmed by options.”
Overwhelmed. That’s one word for it.
The next dress is heavier. The fabric clings, the corset tighter. My lungs protest. I stare at the mirror, and it feels like the glass itself is shrinking. I tug at the neckline, at the sleeves, at anything to make space for air. My pulse hammers behind my ribs.
Vera says something about the veil. Valentina says my name.
And then the tears come. Not pretty ones. Not cinematic. Just raw and silent and shaking.
I cover my mouth with my hand, but it doesn’t stop the sound that escapes—small, cracked, broken. The room freezes. The attendant steps back. Vera blinks, startled. Valentina moves first.
“Mara,” she says softly, stepping closer. “Hey…hey, breathe.”
I shake my head. “I can’t…” The words catch. “I can’t do this.”
“Okay,” she says quickly, calm and steady. “Okay, it’s all right. Take it off. We’ll take it off.”
She signals the attendant, who fumbles with the back of the dress. My skin feels like it’s burning. The zipper catches. My hands tremble.
Valentina’s voice cuts through the panic, low and even. “Look at me, Mara. Just look at me.”
I do. Her face is steady, eyes kind. Grounding.
The dress loosens. I breathe. Barely.
Vera’s voice breaks through the quiet. “What is happening?”
Valentina doesn’t look at her. “She’s done for today.”
“This is absurd. She’s marrying into—”
“She’s done,” Valentina says again, sharper this time.
Vera falters, unused to being told no. She mutters something in Russian under her breath and leaves the room in a cloud of perfume and indignation. The door clicks. The silence that follows feels like relief.
Valentina exhales slowly, then gestures toward the dressing bench. “Sit.”
I do. My hands are shaking. My chest hurts. I press my palms to my knees and stare at the floor. The carpet’s patterned in tiny flowers, gold and cream, and the sight of them makes my eyes sting all over again. Valentina crouches in front of me, fingers gentle on my wrists.
“You’re okay,” she says softly. “You’re okay.”
“I’m not,” I whisper. “I thought maybe if I tried hard enough, I’d get used to it. That it would stop feeling like…like someone else’s life.”
Her expression softens. “It’s a lot, I know.”
“It’s not the dress,” I say, voice cracking. “It’s everything. It’s all of it. The planning, the pretending, the waiting. I keep thinking if I just keep moving, it’ll make sense. But it doesn’t. None of it does.”
She squeezes my hand. “You don’t have to make sense of it right now.”
“I thought I’d be happy. Or at least numb. But it’s worse than that. It’s like…” I search for the word. “Like I’m disappearing.”
Valentina opens her mouth, but another voice cuts in from the door.
“I’ll take it from here.”.
I look up, startled. Alessia’s leaning against the doorway, coat still on, eyes already softening when she sees my face.
“I told myself I’d wait outside,” she says, stepping in. “But I heard Vera and I thought, nope. Not today.”
Valentina straightens. “I was about to call you.”
“I figured.” Alessia crosses the room, drops to the floor beside Valentina, and wraps an arm around me without hesitation. “Breathe, baby. Just breathe. Dresses aren’t supposed to make you cry unless they’re couture and you can’t afford them.”
A shaky laugh escapes me before I can stop it. It’s small, but it’s real.
“There she is,” Alessia murmurs. “That’s my girl.”
Valentina stands, scanning the room like she’s making decisions only she knows how to execute. “We’re leaving. Now. Before Vera gets ideas.”
Alessia nods. “She’s already halfway to plotting an ambush.”
They help me up. The attendant hovers awkwardly, clutching a clipboard like a shield.
Valentina offers her a polite smile that manages to sound like a warning. “Send the samples to the penthouse. We’ll review them later.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I change back into my clothes—jeans, sweater, something that feels like me again—and when I emerge, Valentina’s already handling payment details while Alessia waits by the door.
Her eyes flick to me, assessing. “You good to walk?”
“I think so.”
We step outside. The air hits cold and sharp against my cheeks. The sky’s low, heavy with gray. For a moment, I just stand there, breathing it in. The city moves around us, loud and fast and oblivious.
Valentina links her arm through mine. “Let’s go get something to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Then let’s get something to drink,” Alessia says. “Wine fixes everything.”
“Except weddings,” Valentina mutters.
Alessia smirks. “Especially weddings.”
We end up in a quiet café a few blocks away, the kind with scratched tables and good coffee.
The heat fogs the windows. Valentina orders tea.
Alessia orders something with foam and chocolate sprinkles.
I just sit there, hands wrapped around a cup I don’t drink from. For a long time, none of us talk.
Finally, Valentina says, “You don’t have to marry him.”
The words hang there, bold and fragile.
I shake my head. “It’s not that simple.”
“It never is,” Alessia says. “But it’s also not impossible.”
“I don’t even know what I want anymore,” I whisper. “I used to. Before.”
Before Nicolo. Before the Castello. Before I learned that wanting something doesn’t mean you get to keep it.
Valentina reaches across the table, her hand steady on mine. “Then start with this. Want peace. Just for now.”
Alessia nods. “The rest will come later.”
I look at them—these women who have loved me enough to stay through the parts I can’t explain—and I manage a small, broken smile. “Okay.”
Valentina’s mouth softens. “Okay.”
The rain starts outside, soft and steady.
It runs down the glass like it’s trying to blur the world beyond the window.
I watch it fall until everything fades into gray.
For the first time in weeks, I let myself cry without hiding it.
Not the kind that breaks you open. The kind that empties you out.
When it stops, Alessia slides a napkin across the table.
“We’ll figure it out,” she says simply.
And for the first time, I almost believe her.