“Are you going to try on the dresses?” I ask, my voice coming out harsher than I intended.
She blinks, focusing on me like she’d forgotten I was there. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
I frown at that response. “You seem distracted.” Certainly not acting like a blushing bride-to-be.
“I’m not distracted.” She looks away, her jaw working. “I’m just trying to remember what excitement about wedding dresses is supposed to feel like. It’s been a while since I felt much of anything.”
The words are delivered without emotion, which somehow makes them worse. She’s not angry anymore, not defiant. She’s just…empty. Going through the motions because that’s what’s required of her.
Before I can formulate a response, Madame Rousseau returns with an assistant carrying garment bags. “Here we are!” she says cheerfully. “Now, I’ve selected several styles based on your body type and the information Mr. Marchetti provided. We have ball gowns, mermaid silhouettes, A-lines, and a few modern sheaths that I think would be absolutelystunningon you.”
She starts unzipping bags, revealing gowns that even I can tell are expensive as hell. White silk, ivory lace, crystal beading that catches the light and probably costs a small fortune.
“We’ll leave you to try these on,” Madame Rousseau says to Giuliana. “Just ring if you need any assistance with the zippers or buttons. Take your time. Finding the perfect dress is such an important part of the journey.”
Journey. As if this is some romantic adventure.
Once we’re alone, Giuliana stands and moves toward the curtained changing area without a word. I watch her disappear behind the heavy fabric, listen to the rustle of clothing and the whisper of expensive silk.
Minutes pass. Then more minutes. The silence stretches uncomfortably long.
“Do you need help?” I finally ask.
“No.” Her voice is muffled by fabric. “I’m fine.”
But she doesn’t sound fine. She sounds like she’s struggling with something—either the dress or her composure, I can’t tell which.
More rustling. A soft sound that might be a sob quickly muffled. Then the curtain pulls back.
Jesus Christ.
Giuliana stands in the doorway wearing a ball gown straight out of a fairy tale—layers of ivory tulle over silk, a sweetheart neckline that showcases her collarbones and the elegant line of her throat, crystal beading that makes her practically glow under the boutique’s lighting. Her dark hair is still pulled back in that awful bun, and she’s not wearing makeup, but none of that matters.
She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
And she looks absolutely miserable.
“Well?” She turns slowly, showing me the full effect of the dress. The tulle swirls around her, catching the light. “Does it meet your standards?”
The question is delivered with just enough bite to remind me that she’s not as broken as she appears. That somewhereunderneath the compliance and exhaustion, Giuliana Conti is still fighting.
“It’s fine,” I manage, not trusting myself to say more.
Her lips press together in something that’s not quite a smile. “Fine. Of course.” She turns back toward the mirror, studying her reflection with an expression I can’t read. “Everything is always justfine.”
I watch her standing there, this woman I’m supposed to be destroying, and I can’t make myself look away. The dress transforms her into something ethereal, untouchable, like a vision from a dream I don’t deserve to have. But more than her beauty, it’s her composure that captivates me—the way she’s holding herself together despite everything, the pride in her spine even when I’ve given her every reason to crumble.
She shouldn’t still be standing. By now, she should be broken, compliant, eager to please me just to avoid further punishment. That was the plan. That’s what happened to my mother under my father’s cruelty. She folded inward, became smaller and smaller until there was nothing left but a ghost going through the motions.
But Giuliana isn’t my mother, even if she’d looked like it earlier. She’s something else entirely. Something I didn’t account for in my revenge.
But any more of this, and she will be like my mother.
“Try on the next one,” I say, my voice gravelly. I clear my throat and look down at my hands.
She disappears behind the curtain again without argument. More rustling, more time passing in uncomfortable silence.When she emerges wearing a fitted mermaid gown that clings to every curve before flaring at her knees, I have to look away before I do something stupid.
Like tell her the truth. Admit that somewhere between planning her destruction and executing it, she’s become more than revenge.
