Page 106 of Betrayal and Vows

The stylist arrives with an army of assistants.

They descend on me like vultures on a fresh kill.

They start on the process of transforming me into Mikhail's perfect bride.

The wedding dress hangs in the corner. It is beautiful in its own way.

But not for me.

I see it as my prison uniform.

Black and white stripes and chains.

I close my eyes and imagine myself in the dress of my dreams, marrying the man I love.

Anton.

My throat closes at the thought of him.

"You're so lucky," one of the assistants gushes as she curls my hair. "Mikhail Orlov is so handsome. So powerful."

I want to tell her that she can have him. Handsome men can have the ugliest souls.

I say nothing.

My mother is quietly watching from where her usual stylist is touching up her makeup.

My mother is a beautiful woman. She doesn’t need all the makeup, but today, we’re all putting on a show.

Mom glances at her watch and claps her hands once. "That's enough. Everyone out. I need a moment with my daughter."

The stylists and assistants flutter around, gathering their tools and chattering about how beautiful I look. I wouldn't know. I haven't looked in a mirror.

"Out," Mom says more firmly when they linger.

The room empties, leaving just the two of us and the massive white gown hanging like a ghost in the corner.

"Come," she says softly. "Let's get you dressed."

I stand on unsteady legs. My body feels disconnected from my mind, like I'm watching someone else's life unfold. She lifts the dress from its hanger with reverent care.

I step into the massive poof of fabric.

She pulls it up, sliding my arms through the sleeves.

Every inch of fabric feels like it weighs a hundred pounds.

It threatens to take me to my knees.

"Turn around."

I face away from her as she begins working on the corset back. Each pull of the laces feels like another chain beingfastened. The bodice squeezes tighter and tighter, forcing my breasts up and my waist in until I can barely breathe.

She finishes and then moves to stand in front of me.

“You look beautiful,” my mother whispers.

“Please don’t say that,” I choke. “Please don’t pretend any of this is okay.”