Piper’s eyebrows climb higher. “That’s… dramatic.”
“Exactly.” I click add to cart before doubt can creep in. “Dramatic is what I need right now.”
“Are you sure this isn’t just the wine talking?” Piper asks, though there’s amusement lurking at the corners of her mouth.
“The wine might be doing the ordering, but I’m driving the cart.” I move on to clothing sites, adding items with reckless abandon. “Besides, don’t act like you didn’t completely change your wardrobe after that jerk Richard dumped you.”
“That was different,” she protests weakly.
“Was it though?” I shoot back. “Your credit card probably still has PTSD.”
She laughs, conceding the point. “Fair enough. But hair dye is a big commitment.”
“So is sleeping with a Mobster, but here we are.” The joke falls flat, but Piper’s gentle smile softens the edge. “How long have you known? About what the Russos really do?”
She takes a long sip of wine before answering. “I didn’t know as early on as you do,” she sighs.
“And you’re okay with it?”
“I wouldn’t say I’m okay with it,” she corrects, eyes flashing. “But I love him. And loving someone means accepting all of them, even the parts that terrify you.”
As I consider her words, I fall silent. What she said isn’t true for me. I’m not repulsed or scared of Matteo’s darkness. Not at all. A part of me knows he’ll never hurt me. And… if I’m completely honest with myself, I think I’ve always known it.
Even when he broke into my home and I was scared, excitement overshadowed any fear. And when I learned his last name, I still didn’t run. I mean, I did. Literally. But the more I think about it, I think it was just the shock and how real it suddenly became.
Piper lets me sit alone with my thoughts, and I completely lose track of time. So when the doorbell interrupts my spiraling thoughts, I almost jump off the couch.
“That was fast,” Piper mumbles.
“Express delivery is a beautiful thing,” I reply, already scrambling off the couch.
The delivery person looks slightly alarmed as I sign for multiple packages, probably because I’m grinning like someone who’s either found religion or lost their mind. Maybe both.
I dump the boxes on my living room floor, tearing into them with the enthusiasm of a five-year-old on Christmas morning. Clothes spill out; a leather skirt that puts the mini in miniature, booty shorts, crop tops, and a few dresses.
“Oh, my God!” I exclaim, refusing to admit I might have gone overboard. “It’s all so pretty.”
“Wow,” Piper says, fingering a sequined top that catches the light. “You weren’t kidding about wanting drama.”
“Go big or go home,” I reply, already digging for the hair dye box. Finding it, I brandish it triumphantly. “Ready to help me commit a crime against my follicles?”
Piper eyes the box dubiously. “Are you absolutely sure? Blonde has always been your thing.”
“Blonde was old me’s thing,” I correct, already heading for the bathroom. “New me’s thing is whatever she damn well pleases.”
My bathroom transforms into a war zone of beauty products. Piper helps me section my hair, both of us growing progressively less coordinated and more giggly as we drain another bottle of wine.
Dye splatters across the white tiles and sink, drips onto my shoulders, and somehow ends up on Piper’s cheek.
“It looks like we murdered Barbie in here,” I laugh, surveying the carnage.
My scalp tingles from the dye, or maybe from the anticipation of transformation. I catch my reflection in the mirror—blonde hair hidden under a shower cap, cheeks flushed from wine and excitement, eyes brighter than they’ve been in days.
“You’re insane, you know that?” Piper says, but she’s laughing too, the tension that’s been wound around us all day finally breaking completely.
“Certifiable,” I agree cheerfully. “But at least I’ll be insane and pretty.”
The timer on my phone chimes, signaling its time to rinse. While Piper remains seated on the closed toilet, I strip and get into the shower.
