That’s the lie everyone tells themselves anyway. That it’s all soft music and clinking champagne flutes and women drifting around in silk robes like serene ghosts.
But I am anything but calm.
And neither is the bride’s room.
Priscilla buzzes with activity. There’s an incredible amount of people flitting in and out from the moment I arrive. Poking at my face with this and that, curling my hair and tugging it into curlers before I’m passed from one chair to another and charted with makeup until I barely resemble myself. Another turn in the hair-chair, my poor curls teased and tugged and forced into a sleek ponytail that reminds me of a horse’s backside.
Not that I say anything. I’m a vision of elegance and grace. Except for when I kicked over the champagne bucket and tripped on a flower girl. Heaven knowswhere Priscilla procured the toddler, seeing that none of us have children. But with Dad’s wealth, you can probably just rent one for the day to up the cute factor.
I wouldn’t put it past her.
Priscilla sits perfectly still in the centre of it all, wearing a robe the colour of whipped cream, her face and hair already flawless. I’m quite convinced she had a hair stylist and makeup artist see her before everyone arrived, so she’d be picture perfect even before having her official hair and makeup done. Madness. I can’t deny that she looks radiant.
Which makes me want toscream. This pretender who’s swooping in and poisoning my father while pretending to be the sweet, darling bride.
Well, fuck you, Priscilla. Today’s the day I prove to Dad that you’re not who you say you are.
I hover in the doorway waiting for the perfect window to disappear. Roman will be waiting already, and I need to move before the ceremony guests start arriving.
She’s distracted when the florist arrives with an insanely large, but admittedly stunning, bouquet. I’m not quite sure how she intends to hold the thing all day; it looks as heavy and cumbersome as the hire-a-kid. No one is paying attention tome, which suits me just fine.
I glance down the corridor and spy Roman leaning against the wall. Jacket off and sleeves rolled up. Damn, he cuts a fine figure looking all brooding. Anyone else would think he’s relaxed. But I know he’s as apprehensiveas I am. Probably more so, given that I’m at least blood-related to the household of knife enthusiasts.
I give a nod.
Now.
His brows lift slightly, and he pushes off the wall without a word.
I attempt to slip away quietly and nearly plough straight into a staff member holding a steamer like it’s a Faberge Egg. She gasps and apologises to me, despite it very much being my fault.
Then I’m out. Making my way downstairs to the cabinet, where Roman waits.
Right. Maggie Hamilton, you can do this.
You’re the eldest daughter. And assassin-adjacent, at least. And this time I’ve come armed.
I pull the screwdriver from my pocket and shove it in the slight gap in the antique cabinet while Roman keeps watch.
‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’
‘It would be a better idea if you bloody well helped.’
I twist the screwdriver, but only manage to scratch the wooden door.
I try again, harder.
Still nothing.
‘Open up, you stupid wooden wanker,’ I whisper.
Behind me, Roman laughs.
‘I’m not sure insulting it will help. I still think this is a terrible plan.’
‘I’ve had worse plans.’ The screwdriver slips, and Ijust forward, narrowly missing spearing myself in the face.
‘Like when you kidnapped me.’
