"Of course nothing changes that." I set the glass down—when had I finished it? I didn't remember drinking it all, but the crystal flute was empty. "But you're really freaking me out. What's—"
The room tilted.
Just slightly at first. Enough to make me blink, shake my head, and try to clear whatever was happening.
"I'm so sorry."
Bianca's voice came from far away now, even though she was right in front of me.
"I'm so, so sorry, Paola. I can't do it—I can't marry him—Father said you could—I had no choice—"
"What?" I tried to focus on her face, but she was blurring. The whole apartment was blurring. "Bianca, what did you—"
My legs wouldn't hold me. I reached for the back of the couch, missed, stumbled.
"Please forgive me." Bianca's hands caught me as I fell, lowering me to the couch. "Father will explain everything. He promised—he promised you'd understand—"
Strong hands caught me before I hit the floor. Not Bianca's; they were too large, too strong. Men's hands.
When had a man entered the apartment? Was there more than one? I couldn't turn my head to see, couldn't focus, couldn't think past the drug pulling me down into darkness.
"I'm sorry," Bianca said one last time. Her voice shattered, broken. "I'm so, so sorry, little sister."
Then: nothing.
My head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton and hit with a hammer. Repeatedly. I tried opening my eyes. Where—
Light stabbed through my skull like shards of broken glass.
I groaned and tried to roll over, but my body wouldn't cooperate. Everything felt heavy—limbs weighted down, thoughts moving through molasses. The silk sheets beneath me whispered against my skin, too smooth, too cold. Wrong.
My mouth tasted like something had died in it. Bitter and chemical. The kind of taste that made my stomach lurch and my throat close up.
I forced my eyes open. The ceiling above me swam into focus—the familiar fresco my mother had commissioned before she died. Cherubs and clouds. I was in my bedroom at the Lombardo estate.
But that didn't make sense. I hadn't lived here in years.
I pushed myself up on my elbows. The room tilted sideways, then righted itself with a nauseating lurch. Sunlight poured through the French windows, too bright, making me squint. The antique clock on the mantle read 11:47.
Late. I was late for—what? Why couldn't I remember?
I looked down.
My breath stopped.
I was wearing a wedding dress.
Not just any wedding dress. An elaborate confection of ivory silk and French lace, with long sleeves covered in delicate beading that caught the light. Pearl buttons marched down the bodice—dozens of them. The skirt pooled around me on the bed, layer upon layer of tulle and silk, with a train that spilled onto the Persian rug.
This wasn't my dress. I'd never seen this dress before in my life.
My hands went to the fabric, fingers catching on the lace. Real. It was real. The panic hit like a fist to the chest—sudden, brutal, stealing what little air I had left.
This isn't happening. This can't be real.
I tried to stand. My legs tangled in the train and I nearly went down, catching myself on the bedpost. The room spun again. I pressed my palm to the carved mahogany until the world steadied.
The full-length mirror across the room reflected someone I didn't recognize.
