“So some people say.” Matteo grabs the first dress and hands it over to me. “Here. Try this on. We have to hurry; the wedding is in two days.”
I gasp. “Two days?”
“You didn’t know?” Matteo shrugs, completely unbothered. “I’m not even surprised. This is the Rusnaks we’re talking about. Quick, try this one.”
I take the dress begrudgingly, still stuck on his words.
Two days.
Why is he even in such a hurry?
Last night, Timofey looked like he would rather set the entire house on fire than agree to marry me. Now suddenly, there’s a deadline?
Something about that annoys me. How could he make such an important decision without talking to me about it?
But I push the thought aside, for now. Survival first. Questions later.
Matteo is with me in seconds, his practiced hands moving with precision as he helps me into the dress. Fabric slides over my skin, cool and expensive, settling into place like it already belongs to me.
“Arms up—yes, like that,” he mutters, circling me.
His fingers fly over the dress—cinching the bodice tighter, adjusting the shoulders, smoothing invisible creases, tugging here and there until everything aligns perfectly.
He steps back.
Then forward again.
Then back once more.
A perfectionist.
Finally, he stills.
“Well?” he demands, eyes sharp, expectant.
I turn toward the mirror.
And my breath catches.
The dress fits like it was made for me. The bodice is structured, hugging my torso with elegant restraint, while the rest falls in soft, controlled lines that move when I do—but never too much. It doesn’t overwhelm me.
It sharpens me.
Elevates me.
Transforms me.
I look…powerful.
Not like a girl running for her life.
Not like someone who lost everything in a single night.
I look like someone stepping into something bigger.
Something dangerous.
Something inevitable.
