She bows slightly and turns to leave.
“Thank you,” I say again, softer this time. “What’s your name?”
“Elena.”
“Thank you, Elena.”
She nods and disappears, the door clicking shut behind her.
The room falls quiet for a moment.
Then Matteo exhales dramatically. “See? Even the staff agrees with me. This is a moment.”
I huff a laugh, but my attention drifts back to the mirror.
Back to myself.
Back to the girl in the dress.
My fingers trace the edge of the fabric again, slower this time.
Thoughtful.
Because beneath the beauty, there’s purpose.
There’s calculation.
There’s war.
I lift my gaze, meeting my own reflection.
Two days.
Two days to transform from a hunted girl into something untouchable.
Soon, I try all four dresses.
Matteo insists on it, hovering, adjusting, commenting dramatically on every single detail like the fate of the world depends on lace and stitching.
“This one says innocent bride, which you are clearly not—no offense.”
I swat his arm. “Oh, stop it!”
By the time we circle back to the first dress, I already know.
I don’t even need to look in the mirror again.
It’s mine.
“There’s just something about it,” I say, smoothing my hands over the fabric.
Matteo watches me for a long second…then nods slowly.
“Yes,” he agrees. “That one is you.”
We move on to fittings, measurements, adjustments—him talking a mile a minute about veils, shoes, accessories, things I barely register because my mind is already ten steps ahead—when there’s another knock on the door.
I turn.
