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prologue - stefania
march 1988
Awoman’s wedding day.The happiest day of her life. The first day of her happily ever after.
So they say.
Everybody leaves out the most important part. It’s only a happily ever after if the guy you’re spending forever with is the guy you’re in love with.
Nobody wants to talk about theotherkind of wedding day. The worst day of a woman’s life. The first day of many to come that’ll be hell.
A given when you’re marrying the devil.
“You look gorgeous, Stef!” Marsia cries out, coming up from behind. She’s taller than even me, which says a lot considering I model. A big smile spreads onto her face as she stares at our reflection in the full-length mirror. With both hands, she gathers my long blonde hair and twists it into different styles. “Just wait ’til we’re done with you. Most beautiful bride ever. Hair up or down?”
“Down,” I say.
Florina shakes her head from where she stands in the background. “Up. Mr. Mancino requested.”
My mouth pulls tight.
Marsia notices and squeezes my shoulders. “It’s okay, doll,” she says. “You’ll still be a ten. It’ll show off this long model neck of yours. I’ll go check on the dress.”
I barely notice her wander off. The air seems to be running short, sucked dry from the room. It becomes a furnace despite the breeze blowing the window curtains and the ceiling fans spinning.
Which makes no sense, but it’s how I feel.
No air. No oxygen. Can’t breathe.
My skin’s feverish and rosy, like I’ve been baking under the sun.
Today is the day I have always dreamed of.
The positive affirmation echoes in my dazed head. Fake and meaningless and gone within seconds. It doesn’t help take my mind off the situation or make it any prettier. It sure as hell doesn’t help my lungs breathe.
I stagger over to the credenza where a tray of refreshments and appetizers have been laid out for us girls to nibble on.
Prosecco. Bruschetta. Antipasto. Among other things.
I grab a bottled water and chug. I drink ’til there’s nothing left. ’Til the plastic crinkles under my slender fingers.
All the while, halfway across the room, Florina remains quiet. She shifts through a handful of wedding documents, my brains for the day. My brains every day.
Probably stuff like guest lists, seating arrangements, ceremony schedules, and whatever else. Her round face is focused, so I think nothing of it.
…until an envelope slips free and floats to the floor.
My gaze follows it. She scurries to snatch it up, but it’s too late. I’ve set sights on it, and I’ve seen the name scrawled on the back.
“Flo, what was that?”
“Nothing important. Just mail.”
“Just mail. It didn’t look like ‘just mail.’ Lemme see!”
I lunge for it, and she attempts to beat me to the punch. Long arms come in handy, whereas short and stubby ones don’t. We crash into each other like we’re linebackers playing football. I come out on top, holding up the envelope beyond her reach.
Still unsteady and dizzy, I put space between us by retreating to the open window.
