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I want to agree, but Alessio has made it known that this marriage won’t be one of love. Regardless of what I see in his eyes when he looks at me, he can’t bring himself to admit that he has real feelings. Something is holding him back, and I suspect it’s partially due to the fact he’s still grieving the loss of Gwen. But I think a larger part of it has to do with what happened to his own family. He hasn’t dealt with his pain. He just created protective mechanisms to keep it from happening again. The walls he’s built are so thick, nobody can ever hurt him, but it means he won’t let anyone love him either.
He hasn’t returned to my room in the two weeks since we agreed to marry, and we’ve barely spoken other than to discuss Nino and the upcoming wedding preparations. It’s not really a wedding, but more of an elopement. We leave tomorrow, and I’m not entirely certain what I’m getting into, but he’s given me a cliff notes version. Abella has been filling me in on the rest of the details throughout our morning, explaining how The Society works, the type of functions we’ll probably attend, and what my life will be like as Alessio’s wife.
It still seems surreal to think about it. I’m going to be his wife.
Maybe it’s foolish and naïve, but the thought warms me. It makes me feel safe and slightly drunk. It also makes me feel slightly stupid, because I’m marrying a man who might never be able to admit he cares about me. I’m becoming a part of his world, a world I had only ever dreamed about destroying. Now, I’ll be one of them, following their rules, and rubbing elbows with the dangerous elite. There’s still a part of me that thinks I shouldn’t be okay with it. This isn’t a fairy tale. It’s a hostage situation. I’ll be negotiating with them for the rest of my life.
“Alright then.” Abella hiccups, discarding her champagne glass. “We better pick out your dress before Manuel has to carry you home.”
We both laugh, and Katherine discreetly removes the champagne bottle before snapping her fingers at her assistant. “We’re ready for the dresses.”
They wheel out five more racks full of wedding dresses, and I’m glad we saved this part for last. I probably would have had a panic attack if I had to choose it first, but now I’m boozy and my cheeks are warm, and my inhibitions are just low enough that I think I can try one on without hyperventilating.
Abella goes through the first rack, holding up each dress, swishing it in front of her as she models them on the hanger. We both laugh at some of the faces I make, and the elimination process goes rather quickly. We have a decent selection pile for me to try on when she holds up a simple, white silk trumpet dress with off-the-shoulder straps and an open back. I pause, staring at it with a sudden overwhelming sense of emotion.
That one, I sign. That’s the one I want to try.
Abella offers me a curious glance. Right now?
I nod. Her eyes light up, and she gestures for me to join her in the dressing room.
I don’t know how I know. It just feels like the one. I wasn’t expecting to get attached to any of these dresses, honestly. I kept telling myself it just had to fit the role as if I were an actress in a play, but as Abella helps me into it, it doesn’t feel like a role. I feel like a woman preparing to marry the man she loves. It doesn’t fully hit me until I look at my reflection in the mirror and break down in full-on sobs.
“Hey.” Abella rubs my back, trying to comfort me. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. Take some deep breaths.”
I nod at her, calming my breathing and forcing myself to relax.
“We can take it off,” she says. “If you hate it.”
I don’t. I shake my head. It’s the opposite. I just wasn’t expecting to love it so much.
“Oh, thank God,” she whispers. “Because you look fucking amazing right now. I think this is the one.”
Me too.
We both glance at my reflection in the mirror, and after a long moment, she lets out a little shriek. Did we seriously just pick out your dress in one try?
My heart flutters as I smooth my fingers over the beautiful fabric. I think we did.
I could get used to this, I tell Abella.
She smiles over at me, bobbing her head in agreement. “You should. You’re about to be Mrs. Scarcello. You could come here every week if you wanted to.”
The therapist adjusts her pressure on my foot, kneading into a spot that’s still sore from our full morning of shopping. After buying what feels like entirely too many clothes, Abella brought me to a spa for an afternoon of pampering. I’ve been massaged, waxed, scrubbed, and turned over with a fresh haircut and a full face of makeup. My fingers and toes are a glossy shade of red to match my new lipstick, and I feel like an entirely new woman. It’s been an amazing experience but getting used to it seems a bit too self-indulgent.
