I wake to the sound of soft tapping on my window—snowflakes catching in the early glow of morning, drifting down in slow spirals as if the whole world is holding its breath. Even myapartment feels different today, warmed by soft enchantments humming in the corners. The bond thrums quietly under my skin like a heartbeat that isn’t mine alone.
Newt stretches at the end of the bed and gives me a look that’s equal parts judgment and approval, as though he’s finally accepted that I’m choosing Slade.
The dress arrives just after noon.
Rhea sends a text before it does—Don’t freak out. Seriously—and she’s right, because when I open the garment bag, the breath leaves my lungs in one long, stunned exhale.
Rhea oversaw every alteration. And now, seeing it finished, I understand her warning.
The gown is a deep evergreen velvet that looks nearly black until the light catches it. The sweetheart neckline curves gently upward, balanced by the off-the-shoulder sleeves that frame my collarbones. The bodice is fitted in a structured corset,hugging my waist and lifting my chest just enough to make me blush at my own reflection.
The mermaid skirt clings to every curve before flaring softly near the floor, a high slit on the left side revealing a tantalizing sweep of leg.
But the belt—that’s what steals my breath.
A gold heirloom snowflake, wrought in a Bellamy filigree pattern no jeweler could replicate, inlaid with tiny diamonds that catch even the dullest light. It’s delicate and ancient, the metal warm under my fingertips, humming with the protective magic my ancestors wove into every family piece.
There’s a small note, pinned to the garment bag. “For you, your mother used to wear it every Yule. Mom wanted you to have it. Try not to ruin your makeup, - R.”
I swallow thickly, admiring the belt before swatting away tears.
Getting ready feels weightier than usual. I shower, letting the warm water settle the nerves dancing beneath my skin. I curl my hair in soft spirals,pin one side back with a shimmering gold comb, and let the rest fall freely. I swap out my everyday jewelry for gold—thin layered necklaces, delicate hoops, a bracelet that sparkles like frost. My heels are gold as well, strappy and elegant.
Gold eyeshadow dusts across my lids. A soft shimmer brightens my cheeks, and my lips flush a warm rose. My perfume—amber, vanilla, and winter citrus—settles around me like a memory wrapped in warmth.
When I’m done, I stand in the mirror and almost don’t recognize the woman looking back. Not because she looks different—but because she looks whole.
A soft knock at the door breaks the moment.
Slade waits on the other side, devastating in a black tux with an evergreen sheen, subtle runic embroidery catching each shift of light. His hair is sleek, his jaw clean-shaven, his shoulders impossibly broad.
But when his eyes land on me, everything inside him stills. “Piper,” he breathes, voice touched with awe, “you are…unforgettable.”
Heat blooms across my cheeks. “So are you.”
His gaze roams slowly down the dress, lingering on the heirloom belt. Understanding softens his expression. “That belonged to your mother.”
I nod. “Rhea found it in her collection. She said… Aunt Petunia wanted me to have it.”
Slade steps closer, his voice dropping into something soft and reverent. “She would be proud.”
The words hit deep—deeper than I expect.
He offers me his arm, and I take it, waiting for his magic to open the portal.
The portal to the Bellamy estate opens in a swirl of silver and evergreen light, carrying us into an expansive foyer strung with floating candles and garlands enchanted with frost. Warmth spills over everything—gold light reflecting in polished floors, hearthfires glowing green with witchfire, distant music drifting through arched doorways.
We step into the ballroom and my breath disappears entirely.
A canopy of starlight glitters across the ceiling. Green and gold ribbons float lazily overhead. Crystal centerpieces shimmer like winter constellations. The Bellamys—my loud, magical, chaotic family—move through the candlelight in a blur of velvet and warmth.
Aunt Lyra sees me first. Her gasp is theatrical enough to summon a breeze. “Piper Bellamy,” she calls out, sweeping toward me in lace gloves and dramatic sleeves, “you look like Yule itself decided to take human form.”
I laugh—a bright, genuine sound—and Slade glances at me like he wants to memorize every note.
Lyra hugs me tight, then pulls back to inspect Slade with narrowed eyes. “And this must be the infamous demon lord. You’re taller than I imagined. Congratulations on surviving this long.”
Slade chuckles, bowing his head slightly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
