17. CHAPTER 15
Léonie
If you've spent enough time in bridal fittings, you’d understand livestock. The measuring, the pinning, the fitting—every stage designed to make you hold still while someone else decides your worth.
Four weeks ago I was recovering. Today I was being zipped into Dior so they could parade the sacrifice properly.
Céleste and I used to talk, excitedly over sketches and coffee, about designing each other’s wedding dresses when we finally met the men of our dreams. We’d talked it into existence last fall when she drafted a capsule bridal collection for a test run, while we argued (lovingly) about what designs to keep and discard for the collection, before we finally settled on corsets, hand-laced backs, different lace swatches, and skirts with different dimensions.
She knew my dream dress by heart. It was a silk-organza A-line, structured at the waist and falling into a full, airy skirt, with an off-shoulder tulle resting along the collarbones and a cathedral veil appliquéd with tiny seed pearls. Very vintage, but very me.
She joked about adding pockets too, because why not? I always wanted my hands somewhere to hide my nerves.
Instead I was wrapped in Dior. In the style Lady Kade insisted her son would love. It looked perfect, but also too distant for me to feel anything at all.
Two weeks ago, while the planner ran through flower lists and menu options, my mother hummed her favorite songs over all of it. You could have mistaken her for the bride with that level of excitement.
I'd sat there watching, disconnected from all of it.
When dresses were mentioned, Céleste’s eyes caught mine. She understood my pain. We both said nothing and watched them curate my life like I wasn’t in the room.
It was easier that way anyway. Easier than saying anything that would have set the room on fire.
God forbid I ruined my mother’s joy.
So no, I didn’t pick this dress. I didn’t pick the flowers. I didn’t pick the jewelry my mother raved about, patting my arm in joy while the planner beamed. How dainty, how it suits the neckline, and the diamond on your neck, darling, perfection.
None of it was mine. Down to the engagement ring the Kades sent to the mansion last week.
My mother nearly clapped when it arrived. “It’s a Kade family heirloom,” she giggled, girlish as a debutante discovering love for the first time. “It belonged to Orion’s grandmother.”
The ring—three stones set in platinum, emerald-cut center diamond flanked by two tapered baguettes—a perfect geometry that says past, present, future. Everything about it felt delicate, but its meaning was deceptive. At least to me. This entire charade was.
“Put it on,” she said, glowing with excitement.
I did.
I looked at the ring now as Madame Devereaux and Annette fastened me into the dress I hadn’t chosen. They fixed the silk corset and placed each hook into every eye until it all fit into place.
Madame Devereaux's mouth lifted into a familiar smile—her lower lip nudged forward before the smile formed. The same smile she wore whenever she sensed my sadness. I'd always interpreted it as lift your chin; you’re not alone.
I breathed slowly, counted every single inhale and exhale, then relaxed my shoulders as the pinning, buttoning and smoothing continued.
Surrendering to the process has been the only way I’d made it through fittings, tastings, walk-throughs in the last four weeks. I'd leave my body, touch back down, repeat.
If you disassociated just right, they never notice you’re gone.
So far, it had worked. I don’t see why today should be any different.
“Chérie,” Madame Devereaux whispered, smoothing the skirt, “turn.”
I turned at her request to look at my reflection in the vintage mirror on my right.
Annette adjusted the straps, thumbing the sides flat, then reached for the necklace—another gift, a teardrop diamond on a fine chain chosen because it didn’t compete.
I let them place it. My mother's excitement floated from the hallway, layered with the planner's answering trill. They made the perfect duet.
Céleste and Isolde slipped in without knocking and walked straight to where I stood in the middle of the room.
Isolde’s palm found mine for one quick, anchored squeeze, while Céleste's eyes ran over me, a seamstress cataloging a fit, then lifted to my face and stayed there.
“You’re beautiful.”
“Yes Lée. You’re the most beautiful bride I’ve ever laid eyes on,” Isolde echoes her sentiment.
“That’s the whole point,” I said. “If you make the lamb pretty enough, everyone forgets what the knife is for.”
Her mouth curved sideways. “This isn’t the dress you wanted.”
“No.” I made myself meet her. “But it’s the one that gets us through today.”
Céleste’s chin dipped in an acknowledgement to survival.
She moved behind me, fussed with the veil like she was touching the idea we designed and couldn’t wear. In that fragile space, we could almost pretend it was ours. That the vows waiting downstairs belonged to love and not to some signed contract somewhere.
“Lift your head for me,” Madame Devereaux said tenderly. I looked up, meeting her deep gray eyes. She lifted my chin with two fingers and placed a kiss in the air, just left of my cheek. “Above,” she reminded me, as always. “There is always something above.”
I nodded.
Above the dress; and the room buzzing with other people’s preferences. Above the ring that wasn’t mine.
“You both look beautiful in blush,” I managed to say, my voice sounding thin even to my own ears as I turned to face both Isolde and Céleste.
We had settled on the color a week ago, after dancing around a dozen different schemes only to have the planner reject them all.
Apparently, my personal favorites didn’t align with the aesthetic mandate of the wedding.
Blush was the compromise we finally came to.
According to the planner, only soft colors were authorized.
Imagine the bride not being authorized to pick her own colors.
“Céleste had both our dresses made in less than 48 hours,” Isolde gleamed, stepping back so I could get a better view of the dress.
It was perfect. They both looked perfect, like the carefully pick supporting cast of a movie featuring a high-society event.
The color looked ethereal on Isolde's light skin, accentuating the warmth she carries around with her and was a perfect contrast to Céleste’s brown skin. They both had their hair pinned up in intricate, structured knots.
I adjusted the floral pin at the side of Isolde’s tamed hair. The floral pins must be Isolde’s idea. Céleste liked more elaborate styles. Subtlety had never been her thing.
I took in the room, everyone dressed in muted colors, flowers arranged in sophisticated perfection.
It looked like a wedding alright. Polished, expensive, and completely hollow. I felt like a mannequin dressed for a window display, watching my own life happen from behind a sheet of glass.
A gentle knock came through the door, émile Moreaux, my mother’s older brother—Uncle élie—as we fondly called him walked into the room with Blaise.
Uncle élie was always a delight to be around.
Growing up, he would tell us fun stories, take us to the park, made our favorite meals at sleepovers.
He was a stark opposite of my mother. Where she was stiff and smug, he was gentle and full of joy.
The only similarities they had as sibling were their shade of brown eyes and dark hair.
“You look so beautiful ma petite princesse,” he praised me with a kiss on the cheek.
Before I could respond, the planner's voice filled the room. Babbling about timing, sequence, procession.
Next my mother swept in on cue, fragrance first, then the enthusiasm she hadn't even tried to contain.
“Darling,” she sang, hand to heart. “You’re…oh, look at you.” She turned to the planner. “Isn’t she divine? The Dior was the right decision.”
Céleste and I caught each other's eyes in the mirror. “It’s fine,” she mouthed. I forced a smile that didn't reach my eyes.
Uncle élie cleared his throat, sensing the room becoming too small. “I should run along to welcome the guests,” he said, stealing Isolde and Céleste on his way out.
I watched them walk out of the doorway.
Behind me, my mother and the planner began to ramble, their voices blending into a dull hum of photo sessions and reception logistics. They were discussing me as if I were a floral arrangement that needed to stay hydrated until the evening.
“Are you okay?” Blaise asked. He moved into my space, his concern etched into the lines of his face.
I nodded and feigned a smile.
He looked at me for a second too long, then feigned one back. It was the saddest thing I'd seen all day.
In the last month, I hadn’t breathed a word of Yves.
To my brothers and the rest of the world, I had successfully performed the role of the woman who had forgotten him.
Only Céleste knew the truth—that her cousin, Cassian was already working to help find him.
According to them, there were avenues. Contacts.
Processes. All of it sounded expensive and slow and very, very far away from this bridal salon.
I had accepted my fate as the future Mrs. Kade.
Resistance was a waste of energy I no longer possessed.
My only goal was Yves’s safety. If he was well, if he was breathing somewhere far from this wreckage, then I could finally move on.
I could embrace this newfound numbness, the only anesthetic strong enough to get me through life as Orion Kade's wife.
“Maybe you could file for a divorce in the future,” Isolde had whispered a week ago, her voice full of a hope I couldn't afford.
Maybe I could. But I had to enter my new cage first to map the locks. I had to know exactly how the floor felt underneath my feet before I could find a way out. For now, I was blind on all sides, literally walking into a storm with no compass.
“Tu es magnifique,” Blaise said softly, pulling me back to the present. “Orion is a lucky bastard.”