I sit there until the sky fades to gray and the first drops of rain hit the glass.
Pretending doesn’t hurt as much when you do it in silence.
47
MARA
Aweek. Seven days until the wedding. Seven days until my name changes and the rest of my life begins to feel like someone else’s script.
I tell myself I’ve adjusted. That I’ve done the hard part: accepting it, moving forward, making peace.
But peace is a strange thing. It doesn’t come with quiet. It comes with numbness.
The tailor pins the last edge of the dress with careful fingers.
“Try not to move,” she says softly. “Almost done.”
I nod, eyes fixed on my reflection in the mirror. White silk. Fitted bodice. A clean neckline that shows the curve of my collarbone. It’s beautiful in the same way every prison is beautiful when it’s well-built.
I don’t hate it. I don’t love it either. It justis.
She steps back, squints, and adjusts a pin.
“Perfect,” she murmurs, more to herself than me. “You have the kind of posture designers dream about.”
I force a smile. “Lucky me.”
She chuckles politely and moves away, leaving me alone with my reflection. I study the woman in the mirror. The way thefabric molds to her body. The way her hands rest so still at her sides. She looks like she knows what she’s doing. She looks ready.
She’s lying.
The door opens behind me. “You’re supposed to be sitting still, not plotting your escape.”
I turn. Matteo’s leaning against the doorframe, face carved out of stone. He’s the only one who can still make me smile, even if it’s not his intention.
“I wasn’t plotting,” I say.
“Liar.”
“Maybe a little.”
He shakes his head, a small, genuine smile on his lips. The kind that makes you remember what warmth feels like. He’s dressed sharp, as always: black shirt, rolled sleeves, the faintest trace of cologne.
The tailor excuses herself, murmuring something about bringing the finished hem measurements to Valentina. Once the door closes, Matteo steps further into the room.
“You look good,” he says, tone gentler now.
“Thanks.”
“Still hate it?”
“I don’t hate it,” I say honestly. “It’s just…not me.”
He nods like he gets it. Maybe he does.
“Vivian said the same thing about her first dress. She and her ma want a vintage Oscar de la Renta or whoever the fucking designer was.”
I raise a brow. “Sounds like they’re giving you a hard time.”
