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A foreign noise in another room pulls me out of my thoughts, and my head snaps to the bedroom as an uncomfortable tingle works its way up my spine.
It’s probably just the pigeons that like to hang out on my window ledge. But it’s unnerved me enough to make me hurry and collect my things quickly.
I grab my art bag off the coatrack and fill it with art supplies. My sketchbook and some pencils, a case filled with charcoal and pastels. I’d like to take a few canvases and paints with me, but my canvases are huge, and I’m not sure I’d get them into a cab.
Plus, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a little rattled being here alone. It’s quiet and unearthly still, and I can’t shake the unease gnawing at my gut. It’s an uncomfortable feeling. Like something is watching me. I try to shake it off, but it’s unnerving, and I know I need to get out of there.
Satisfied I have the things I need to stave off the boredom of being locked in Nico’s apartment for God knows how long, I leave my apartment and hail a cab.
Luckily, one pulls up immediately.
As I open the door to climb in, a strange sensation crawls up my spine, and I instinctively turn my head to look up at my window.
Fear bursts through me when I see something in the glass.
Is that a face?
“You getting in, lady?” the cabbie asks.
I turn away from the window to nod, but nothing is in the window when I turn back.
Was it a face or just the light playing tricks on me?
I drop my head back against the headrest and close my eyes.
It seems everywhere I turn, Nico’s world fucks with my head.
Arianna paces the sidewalk where the cab pulls up to the curb. She’s on the phone. When she sees me, her eyes widen, and she ends the call.
“Oh, thank God, you’re safe,” she says the moment I step out of the cab. “I’ve been so worried.”
Guilt spreads through me when I see how panicked she is.
“I’m sorry, Arianna. I only wanted to collect a few things from my apartment.” I hold up the bag of art supplies.
“Nico is going to be so mad,” she says.
“You told him?”
“No, I was just talking to Anastacia. We were supposed to be at your wedding dress fitting fifteen minutes ago, and when we didn’t arrive, she called me.”
Dammit. I’d forgotten about the dress appointment. I glance at my watch. We’re only twenty minutes late. We can still make it.
Before the cab can pull away, I open the door and turn to Arianna. “Come on, we can still make the appointment.”
She slides in beside me. “You must have some kind of death wish. Nico is going to lose his shit.”
I look at my soon-to-be sister-in-law and smile. “Then best we don’t tell him.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “Oh, you can guarantee he already knows.”
24
Bella
The House of Bianchon is unrivaled in its designer couture, and Magda Bianchon is the queen of bridal splendor.
Somewhere in her early sixties, she has the limber abilities of a teenage gymnast as she kneels and bends her body in uncomfortable positions to fit and pin the fabric in precisely the right places.
“I’m sorry we’re late,” I apologize again, feeling guilty. I might not want this wedding to take place, but it doesn’t mean I’m prepared to waste the time of the people helping put it together.
“The traffic in this city can be a nightmare to navigate,” she says diplomatically, dress pins sticking out of her mouth. “Now straighten your back and move these hips so I can get the seam just perfect.”
She moves me into place like I’m made of Play-Doh, then pierces the fabric with the pearl-ended pins.
It takes about an hour of her prodding and pinning until the dress finally sits perfectly around my body.
“Your figure is beautiful to work with,” she says, standing back to observe her handiwork. Her eyes float over my body as she studies me in the dress like I study my canvases. “The fabric loves your curves.”
“Thank you.”
“Have you thought about what you’ll wear underneath?” Magda asks, checking every inch of her work of art.
The dress is so tight, I’m not sure anything will fit under it.
“I’m open to suggestions.”
“Good, because I have two must-haves for your big day.”
She whispers to her assistant who disappears out of the room and returns moments later with two sets of hangers in her hands.
“This one is for wearing under your dress,” Magda says, handing me a hanger with a barely-there thong and nipple pasties. “Seamless, simple and functional. It will look as if you’re not wearing anything underneath.”
I touch the silky satin of the thong, and it feels luxurious against my skin.
“And this one is for your wedding night. It’s from La Perla’s latest collection.” Magda holds up the second set, then hands it to me. “Incredibly soft, elegant, and decadent.”
