Emil gives a short nod, and the staff close in again. I’m led from the salon, back into the endless, echoing hallways. This time, we don’t turn toward my bedroom. Instead, I’m ushered into a smaller, sunlit room lined with mirrors.
A seamstress waits, prim and sharp-eyed, two maids behind her already unpacking layers of white silk and lace.
“Good morning, Miss Bruno,” the seamstress chirps, all brittle cheer. “Let’s not waste time, hm? Mr. Sharov has very particular taste.”
She motions me onto a small platform, her hands busy already. The maids peel away my blouse, strip me to my slip, all of it too fast for protest. The dress—immaculate, new, alien—is lifted from its box, the scent of starch and fresh silk choking in the small space. Lace bites at my shoulders as they pull it over my head, the bodice stiff and unfamiliar. Pearls are fastened at my collarbone, a crown for a queen on a chessboard.
The seamstress bustles around me, pinning, smoothing, tightening. She comments on my posture, clucking at my slumped shoulders.
“Chin up, miss. Mr. Sharov expects a bride who knows her place.” She frets over the way the bodice fits, the curve of my waist, the color of my skin against the white. “You’ll be quite striking, once you smile. Try not to look so grave. This is a wedding, not a funeral.”
The words twist in my gut. I stare at the mirrors, at the dress that belongs to someone else, at the dozens of me reflected from every angle—an army of hollow-eyed women trapped in silk. The skirt weighs heavy against my hips; I can hardly move. The lace scratches, the pearls leave cold tracks on my skin. My breath fogs the glass, but I don’t dare wipe it away.
As the seamstress prattles on about hemlines, about the honor of sewing for the Sharovs—my mind slips away.
I see Enzo, grinning as he lifts me up at a wedding years ago, spinning me in circles while our aunt yelled about grass stains on my dress. His laughter fills the memory. I see him older, slipping extra pastries under the table, squeezing my hand during a thousand tense dinners.
Always on my side, always pulling me back from the edge. I feel the loss now like a wound, sharp and endless.
How did it come to this? Marrying the man responsible for Enzo’s death. Wearing white for the man who ruined everything. I want to tear the dress off, to scream at these women with their pins and their soft voices, to shatter every mirror in the room.
I stand still, let them work. I swallow my tears, force my breath steady, refuse to give them the satisfaction of watching me break.
When they’re done, the room is suddenly empty. The seamstress sweeps out, satisfied, the maids trailing behind her. The door clicks shut.
I stand alone in the center of all those mirrors, the skirt pooled heavy around my ankles, pearls cold on my skin. My hands shake. The silence is suffocating.
I don’t hold it in any longer. The first sob breaks free. Soft, then louder. I slump to the floor, hands clutching at the stiff, useless silk, tears darkening the fabric. For a while I just kneel there, weeping into the dress, the sound swallowed by the mirrors and the high, indifferent ceiling.
Hopelessness floods me. Maybe Emil is right. Maybe this is punishment for thinking I could ever outwit men like him, for reaching above my place, for daring to want more. Maybe I was always meant for this—a silent bride in a stranger’s house.
I collapse into the skirts of the wedding dress, all strength gone. The silk is cold and heavy, sodden with tears, sticky against my skin. The mirrors cast me in a thousand angles, red-eyed and wild, mascara streaking my cheeks. I let myself go—no more holding back for pride or appearances.
My sobs are ugly, raw, my breath coming in ragged shudders. I curse them all: Emil, my uncle, every man who ever decided my fate with a phone call or a signature. I beat my fists into the floor, into the soft silk, into nothing at all. No one comes. No one even knocks.
When the tears slow, I lie there, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling. I think about how I got here—every choice, every step.
Was it the first time I broke curfew as a girl, just to prove I could? Or the day I found the photos in Emil’s desk, and decided I’d rather risk everything than live with a lie? I remember the cold dread of my brother’s funeral, the way they dressed his body in a suit he hated, the priest’s empty words.
I remember Vittorio’s voice, slicing through the air:“You are nothing without us.”
All of them carving away pieces of me, until I was left with this—just a pawn.
Doubt gnaws at me. Was I arrogant, foolish, naïve? Did I think I was clever enough to outplay the Bratva? I see the wreckage I’ve made of my life: my brother gone, my family turned, my freedom vanished one locked door at a time.
Then, under the grief, something harder forms—a spark of rage. Rage at Emil for caging me, for thinking he could own me. Rage at my uncle for turning his back, for teaching me loyalty only to abandon me when it counted. Rage at the world, for making women like me into prizes, into warnings, into leverage.
I sit up, wiping my face with shaking hands. I look at the ruined dress—lace torn, silk stained—and feel something sharp and bright flicker in my chest. I am not beaten. Not yet. If Emil thinks this is victory, he knows nothing about me.
He will not have all of me. Not my mind. Not my will.
Standing, I meet my own eyes in the glass. I look like hell: hair wild, eyes rimmed black, lips swollen with grief and fury.
“I will survive this,” I whisper to my reflection, voice low and steady. “For Enzo. For me. I will find a way out. I will make them pay.”
With a shaking but deliberate motion, I strip off the dress. I rip pearl buttons, tearing silk. I leave it in a crumpled heap. I pull on my own clothes, or what’s left of them, reclaiming some small power.
I move to the window, pressing my palm to the glass. Below, life churns on—servants carrying trays, drivers circlingthe drive, the world spinning as if I never existed. For a moment I feel untethered, invisible. But the feeling passes, replaced by a cold, precise calm.
