The makeup artist studies my face, her fingers tilting my chin to examine my cheekbone where the last traces of Dimitri’s violence have finally faded to nothing. “Good bone structure,”she murmurs, like I’m a canvas rather than a person. “We’ll play up the eyes, keep the lips soft. Mr. Marchetti specified ‘elegant but approachable.’”
Of course he did. Even my face is subject to his specifications.
Fuck him.
They work on me for hours.
The hair stylist creates elaborate waves that cascade down my back, pinning sections with what feel like a thousand bobby pins.
The makeup artist applies layers of foundation and contour and highlight, transforming my face into something that looks like me but perfected, polished, and utterly artificial.
When Sophia finally unzips the garment bag, I understand why they saved the dress for last.
Everyone gasps as she removes it.
It’s a masterpiece.
Emerald silk shimmers like water in moonlight, with a neckline that’s low enough to be interesting without being scandalous, and a skirt that flows like liquid when Sophia holds it up to the light.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and I hate it with every fiber of my being.
“Arms up,” Sophia instructs, and I obey like the obedient doll I’ve become. It fits perfectly.
The jewelry comes next.
A diamond necklace that probably costs more than my veterinary school loans.
Matching earrings that catch the light and throw rainbows across the ceiling.
A bracelet that circles my wrist like the most expensive handcuff imaginable.
When they’re finally done and I’m standing in front of the full-length mirror, I barely recognize myself.
The woman staring back at me is sophisticated and elegant.
Exactly the kind of trophy wife a man like Luca Marchetti would choose.
She’s beautiful and poised and completely fake.
“Perfect,” Maria says with satisfaction. “Mr. Marchetti will be pleased.”
The words make my stomach turn.
I don’t want to please Luca Marchetti.
I don’t want to be his perfect accessory, his political prop, his tool for impressing dangerous men and sealing territorial alliances.
But none of what I want matters anymore.
The ballroom of the Palmer House Hilton glitters. Crystal chandeliers and gold leaf and mirrors multiply the crowd into infinity.
I stand near the entrance in a designer gown, watching Chicago’s elite circle each other like sharks in expensive clothing, and try to remember how to breathe.
Nine days.
I’ve been Luca’s prisoner for nine days, and tonight is my debut as his fiancée.
My first appearance in public since he destroyed my life and locked me in that opulent hell he pretends is home.
