I don't know what to say to that. No one, in my entire life, has ever seen called me dangerous. I’ve never had power.
I can’t ignore the way that it makes me feel—a little heady.
"I know you don't want my advice, but I'm going to give you some anyway," Gemma stands. "Play the game. Be the perfect bride today. Smile for the cameras. Say your vows. Let Mother and Adrian think they’ve won.” She pauses. "And then figure out how to survive being a Nero."
"Won't they have won?" I ask. "I mean I get the sense that marriage is kind of a binding thing in your world."
She smiles. It's sad, not touching her eyes. "It is," she says, and she sounds exhausted, like she has some sort of. "But you have a lot more power than some of us." She moves towardthe door. "I'll send someone to help you with your hair and makeup. The ceremony starts at five."
"Gemma." I stop her before she leaves. "Why are you helping me?"
She looks back at me. For a moment, I see something vulnerable in her expression. Something sad.
"You're family," she says quietly.
Then she's gone.
The woman who comes to do my hair and makeup is professional and silent. She doesn't comment on my bruises, just works around them with expert precision.
I sit in front of the mirror and watch myself transform.
Foundation covers the worst of the damage. Not all of it, you can still see the fading bruise under my eye, but enough that I look less like a victim and more like a bride.
My hair is swept up in an elegant style, loose tendrils framing my face.
Simple. Classic. Beautiful.
The dress fits perfectly. I'm not surprised considering the clothes Adrian bought me previously were all in my size.
The bodice isn’t too tight, which is great considering my ribs, but it has a build in bra that lifts my breasts, and the bodice is structured and beaded. The skirt is heavy, all those layers of tulle making it hard to move freely, especially with my injuries. I would comment on that as some sort of metaphor, but no one here wants to hear it. The veil is secured in my hair with pearl-tipped pins that dig into my scalp.
I look like a princess.
I feel like a prisoner.
When I'm finally ready, someone comes to escort me. Not Gemma. A man in a black suit who doesn't meet my eyes.
I go willingly.
I disassociate until we come up to the Nero mansion. It’s beautiful in the daylight.
A masterpiece of New York architecture, but when I see the guests arriving, my stomach drops.
Everyone is dressed in their best. Flowers overflow across every available surface, and I swear I see a dozen photographers.
This isn't a wedding. It's a spectacle.
I'm led through a side entrance, away from the crowds. Upstairs. Down hallways that all look the same.
Until we reach a suite at the far end.
The door opens, and inside, I see Adrian.
He's wearing a black tuxedo that fits him perfectly. His dark hair is styled back. He looks every inch the Manhattan heir.
Powerful. Dangerous. Beautiful.
He's arguing with someone. An older woman. She turns slightly, and I catch sight of those silver eyes.
