She was beautiful once. Really beautiful, not just the faded prettiness of old age. In the photos from before her marriage, she glowed. There was a wildness in her eyes, a freedom that got slowly extinguished year by year until only shadows remained.
I've read more of Anthony's letters hidden throughout her room. Tucked behind picture frames, sewn into the lining of old purses, pressed between pages of books she knew my grandfather would never read. Love letters that burn with passion and promise, each one a small rebellion she managed to keep.
"My dearest Brigitte," one had read. "Every sunrise I think of you. Every sunset, I mourn another day apart. But this war will end, my darling. All wars do. And when it does, I'll come for you. I'll cross oceans, I'll move mountains. Nothing will keep me from you. Not time, not distance, not the devils that walk this earth in uniform. You are my Paris, my freedom, my home. Wait for me. Just wait for me."
But she hadn't waited. Or maybe she had, and he never came. Or maybe my grandfather made sure he couldn't come, the way Father is making sure Paul can't come for me now.
Except Paul is different.
The door to my room opens without warning. I barely manage to shove the notebook under my pillow before Mrs. Holloway enters with an army of stylists behind her.
"Time to begin, miss." The sorrow she tries to hide bleeds through anyway. She's been with this family long enough to know what this day really means.
The stylists descend like vultures—cheerful, chattering vultures who seem genuinely excited about transforming me into the perfect bride. They arrange their tools of torture across my vanity: curling irons that will burn my rebellion into submission, makeup brushes that will paint over my despair, hairpins that will pierce through any remaining hope.
"Such beautiful skin." One coos, running fingers along my cheek. "Like porcelain."
Yes,I think.Porcelain. Beautiful, delicate, empty. Easy to shatter.
"And this hair!" Another lifts the heavy mass of it. "We'll do an elegant updo, very classical. Mr. Harrington will love it."
Mr. Harrington—Prescott—will love it. Not a single person asks what I might love. But then, dolls don't get preferences.
They sit me in the chair, and the mirror shows them beginning to erase me. Foundation to cover the shadows under my eyes from sleepless nights. Concealer to hide the place where I've been biting my lip bloody with anxiety. Blush to approximate the glow of a happy bride.
Outside, more vehicles arrive. A van with no logo—suspicious. Two men in catering uniforms who move with too much precision, too much awareness. Not caterers at all.
Hope blooms in my chest, dangerous as a flame near gasoline.
"Hold still, dear." The makeup artist chides as I crane to see out the window. "We need these lashes to be perfect."
Perfect.Everything must be perfect for my sale—no, my wedding. Must remember to use the right words, even in my own mind. Father has ears everywhere, and sometimes I wonder if he can hear my thoughts, too.
Mrs. Holloway hovers near the door, ostensibly supervising but really standing guard. Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, and it's there—she knows something. Maybe not the specifics, but she knows today is different. A tension in her shoulders, a watchfulness that wasn't there during yesterday's preparations.
"Your grandmother—" She speaks suddenly, causing the stylists to pause. "—would want you to have this."
She pulls something from her pocket—a small silver hair comb, art deco style, with tiny sapphires that match my earrings. My grandmother's earrings.
"She wore it at her wedding." Mrs. Holloway ignores the stylists' protests as she slides it into my half-finished updo. "Said it was her 'something blue.' Though between you and me, miss, I think she'd understand if you decided you needed something else. Something... different."
Our eyes meet again. She knows. Somehow, she knows.
"Thank you." The whisper is all I can manage.
The stylists resume their work, chattering about the weather (perfect), the flowers (exquisite), the reception menu (divine). Their words wash over me like white noise as the estate transforms through my window. The sun is properly rising now, painting everything gold and pink, making it all look like a fairytale.
But I know better. Fairytales have happy endings. This is something else entirely.
Unless Paul keeps his promise.
Unless I'm brave enough to run when the moment comes.
The stylists step back, admiring their work. In the mirror, a perfect bride stares back—beautiful and empty as a museum piece. But underneath the makeup and the carefully arranged hair, my pulse beats wild as a caged bird's.
Today, one way or another, this cage opens.
Today, I either fly free or die trying.
