They seemed young, in their early twenties, but their professionalism and focus kept them from betraying any surprise at the blood still clinging to my skin.
Ciro’s voice broke the silence:
“Ladies, get her cleaned up and dressed. Fast.”
He didn’t wait for a response, walking to the door and closing it behind me.
I let my eyes roam over the three women assigned to dress me, their hands gesturing toward me, silently urging me closer.
I hesitated.
My stomach growled, a hollow, persistent reminder that I hadn’t eaten anything solid in three days—just water, barely enough to keep me moving.
The emptiness gnawed at me, but beneath it was something sharper: a searing pain in my left side, a burning ache that twisted and knotted with every breath.
My ulcer flared like fire, stabbing deeper with each movement, and I bit back a groan, tasting blood and bile at the back of my throat.
For a moment, I wanted to throw myself at the women, demand food first, anything to dull the pain clawing through me—but I couldn’t.
Would they even listen?
I had already lingered too long.
Vincenzo was waiting at the altar. And I... wasn’t even dressed.
I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to step forward, each movement a negotiation between exhaustion, hunger, and the burning, relentless pain in my side.
My hands shook.
My vision blurred at the edges.
The three women moved around me with practiced precision, guiding every step, their hands gentle but firm.
When I hesitated at the bathroom doorway, my body tense, one of them reached for my arm.
“It’s alright,” she said softly, voice soothing. “We’ll be careful. Just let us help.”
I swallowed hard, cheeks burning, and let them take over.
They undressed me with care, working silently but attentively, mindful of my shivering as warm water poured over my bruised, aching body.
My muscles tensed under the bath, not just from cold, but from the foreign intimacy of being cared for—humiliating and alien after years of running, surviving, never allowing myself to pause.
When the bath ended, they wrapped me in a soft towel and guided me toward the dressing area, supporting me as if I were fragile, lifting me over each step, over each hesitation.
My gaze landed on a pile of apples on the table.
Without a word, one of the women picked one up and offered it to me.
I snatched it greedily, biting down like a starving animal.
The juice ran down my chin.
The women exchanged startled glances, but didn’t interfere.
I grabbed two more in quick succession, feeling the searing ulcer pain finally ease as the food met my stomach, the relief almost dizzying.
With that small comfort settling in my belly, they brought the wedding gown over.
