My hair was swept up in an intricate updo I'd never be able to create myself—braids and curls pinned with tiny white flowers. My makeup was professionally done, though smudged now from sleep. Smoky eyes, nude lips, contoured cheekbones. I looked like Bianca.
No. I looked like a bride.
I stumbled toward the vanity, one hand against the wall for balance. My jewelry box sat open, empty except for—
A note.
The white paper was folded over once. Inside was Bianca's handwriting, that familiar slanted script I'd known my entire life.
My hands shook as I picked it up.
Sorry, little sister. I couldn't do it. You'll understand someday. Don't hate me.
The words blurred. I read them again. Then again.
I couldn't do it.
Couldn't do what?
Fragments of memory clawed back through the fog. Bianca's apartment. Champagne that tasted wrong. Her hands shaking.I'm so sorry, Paola.
She'd drugged me. My own sister had drugged me.
But why was I in a wedding dress?
I turned back to the bed, scrambling through the covers to try and find my phone. I’d call her and demand an explanation. Or I’d call Anna–tell her what happened, she’d come pick me up–
There.
It was on the nightstand along with a few other belongings that someone had taken from me: a bracelet gifted by an ex-turned-friend years ago, my wallet, the worn hair tie I kept around my wrist for painting.
I lunged for the phone, almost sobbing in relief when the screen lit up. There was still battery–barely. And there were a ton of texts from Anna, two missed calls.
The date on the screen…yesterdayI’d gone to meet Bianca. I’d spent a whole day passed out in my childhood bedroom.
“No.”
A hand closed around the phone, wrestling it from me as I cried out. A tall, broad, quiet man stood over me, staring down stoically as I scrambled off the bed, breathing hard. There was a holstered gun at his hip. His massive hand closed entirely around the phone and my heart sank.
Then the bedroom door burst open.
Three women rushed in—servants I vaguely recognized from my childhood. They were speaking over each other rapidly, hands fluttering.
"Signorina! Thank God you're awake!"
"The car is waiting—you're already late!"
"Your father will be furious—"
"Late for what?" My voice came out hoarse. "What are you talking about?"
The oldest servant—Maria, I thought her name was—pressed a hand to her ample chest. "Your wedding, signorina! To Signor Monti! The ceremony started twenty minutes ago!"
The room tilted again.Wedding. Monti.The words didn't make sense together.
"No." I shook my head, backing away from them. "No, this is wrong. This isn't my dress. I'm not getting married. I'm not—"
But they weren't listening. Maria was already at my face with a makeup compact, dabbing at the smudges under my eyes. Another servant adjusted my veil—when had that gotten there?—while the third smoothed the train.
