I can’t help the smile that twitches into existence on my face when I pick up what he’s laying down. “During the ceremony.”
Chapter Four
FIONA
I’m getting married today. It’s supposed to be the happiest day of my life. But as I come awake to the sound of voices outside my room, all I feel is dread. My room. Roman insisted we have separate ones. We’ve never slept in the same bed. Never shared more than a chaste kiss actually. I told Vivian he was old-fashioned, but that’s only part of the story. Although he’s always been kind to me, our relationship feels passionless.
I wonder again why he’s marrying me. Why would a wealthy, attractive, and powerful man pursue a broke, washed-up novelist with an invisible disability? Our romance has consisted of a whirlwind of fleeting moments and romantic gestures. From the beginning, he pursued me with the intent to marry me. It’s inexplicable.
Undeniably, I’m rushing into this. Rushing away from the memory and aftermath of the accident thatkilled my sister and toward the safety of this man, his wealth, the security he offers. But after my conversation with Vivian yesterday, I’m questioning everything. I shake my head. What Roman has to offer will be enough for me.
It has to be.
The door opens, and one of the servants rushes in. “Levez-vous, Madame,” she sings, buzzing around the room to open the drapes and flood the dim space with natural light. “It’s almost noon. The hair and makeup team is already here. I am Esther. I will help you into your dress when the time comes.” She stops and turns a beaming smile on me. “What can I have them bring you for breakfast?”
“Just coffee,” I mumble, rubbing my eyes.
The woman taps her phone and orders coffee, croissants, and fruit in French. I crack my neck. A croissant in the south of France before walking down the aisle to marry Roman certainly won’t hurt anything.
I stumble toward the bathroom and take a quick shower, then wrap myself in a deliciously plush cotton robe just as a half dozen men and women swarm into my room. Coffee is thrust into my hands, and I’m encouraged to sit in a chair so that an impeccably groomed man with a comb can go to work on my tangled tresses.
Esther speeds by and clicks on the television to the local news station. “Something for you to watch while you’re stuck there.”
“English subtitles please,” I request.
She presses a few buttons, and the English translations scroll across the bottom of the screen. “Looks likemore drama for the royals,” she says with a laugh to no one in particular. The Prince of Wales’s face splashes across the screen.
I sip my coffee and take a bite of a croissant that melts in my mouth like it’s made of butter-flavored air. Mmmm. A redheaded woman brushes crumbs off my chin and starts blotting base there with a makeup sponge. I drop the rest of the croissant back on the plate.
Esther pulls my dress out of a massive, zippered bag with the help of two other workers, and they start fluffing and steaming the fabric. It seems like far too much lace. Too much overall volume. It’s the dress version of the Blob. I tell myself it’s just my simple childhood roots rearing their head. Admittedly, I know nothing about fashion. My sister and I were raised in a Catholic orphanage until we were fifteen and then bounced from foster home to foster home. I thought Versace was a brand of car until I was twenty-three.
I deferred to the fancy designer Roman commissioned, and I’m sure I won’t regret it. At least I think I’m sure.
The next time I glance at the TV, there’s a segment playing about a murder in Paris. My writer’s curiosity kicks into gear. The video pans to a body in front of the Fontaine Saint-Michel.
“What’s this about?” I sit up straighter, causing the man behind me to tug me back into place by the hair.
“Have you not heard of this, Ms. Morrow? Famous photographer fromEtats-Unis,um, New York,murdered night before last. Lucy Vale.” Esther shakes her head. “Butchered her body. My husband suspects satanists.”
“Satanists!” My brows shoot skyward.
“Because of the blood.”
“Was she drained of her blood?” I’m not sure why my mind goes there except that it seems very satanic.
“No, not that.” Esther waves a manicured hand like she’s try to find the words. “The murderer wrote an inscription above her head in her blood.” She points at the screen whereAstra inclinant, sed non obligantstains the concrete. “The flesh of her back was flayed to look like wings, right under that statue of the angel killing the devil.”
“Religious extremists,” my hairdresser hisses with disgust. “Terrifying.”
“How something like this could happen.” Esther tsks and shakes her head. “Such a public place and no one saw it?”
“Astra inclinant, sed non obligantis a famous Latin quote. It means something like the stars guide us, they don’t bind us. Certainly sounds cultish. Maybe she was involved in one. Someone might have wanted her dead to keep her quiet.” I stare at the screen, my imagination running wild with stories of how and why Lucy was murdered. “Maybe she knew something she shouldn’t. Someone should check her camera.”
I reach for my coffee and take another swig.
“We must start on your nails, madam,” a pretty, doe-eyed man to my right says.
I switch the coffee to my other hand, still focused on the screen, when the door swings in suddenly and Roman is there, staring down his nose at me. He looks regal in his tux, like Italian nobility. A modern Medici.
