Page 13 of All The Pretty Little Lies

"Vesper!" My mother's shrill voice cuts through the air like a whip. "For heaven's sake, child! Where is your grace? Your poise?"

I manage to right myself, cheeks burning with embarrassment and frustration. The dressmaker hovers nearby, her hands twitching as if she wants to reach out and steady me but doesn't quite dare.

"I'm sorry, Mother," I mutter, smoothing down the front of the dress. “There's so much fabric."

My mother's lips purse into a thin line of disapproval. "A true lady knows how to move in any attire with elegance and dignity. Perhaps we should have enrolled you in more etiquette classes instead of indulging your academic pursuits."

The barb stings, but I swallow my retort. Instead, I try to steer the conversation in a different direction. "Mother, about the wedding. I was wondering if we could discuss some of the details. The guest list, perhaps, or the menu?"

Her eyebrows arch so high they nearly disappear into her hairline. "Oh, Vesper," she says, her tone dripping with condescension. "You're far too young to concern yourself with such matters. Leave the planning to those who know what is proper and befitting of our station."

Too young to plan my own wedding, I think bitterly, but old enough to be married off like a prized mare. The irony is not lost on me, but it seems to have sailed right over my parents' heads.

“But, it’s my wedding,” I fire back. The insubordination slips from my mouth before I can stop it. “Father has chosen my intended groom. You’re choosing everything else. Where ismychoice in all of this?” My hands tug at the gown on my body. The delicate lace twisting around me like a vice, squeezing me from the outside in. “Can I have at least one choice before Father sells me off?”

"Now," my mother continues, gesturing imperiously to the dressmaker, "let's get you out of this gown before you manage to tear it. Honestly, Vesper, you must learn to be more careful."

“I hate this dress,” I spit back.

My mother's eyes flash with anger, but she quickly plasters on a saccharine smile for the dressmaker's benefit. "Vesper, darling, you're just overwhelmed. This is all so exciting, isn't it?"

The rage building inside me threatens to burst forth like a volcano. I can feel my cheeks burning, my fists clenching at my sides. The lace of the dress suddenly feels like it's suffocating me, each intricate pattern a reminder of the cage they're forcing me into.

"Exciting?" I seethe, my voice low and dangerous. "You think being stripped of every choice and every decision about my own life is exciting?"

The dressmaker's eyes widen, darting between my mother and me. She takes a hesitant step back, clearly sensing the tension in the air.

My mother's smile becomes strained, her eyes silently pleading with me to stop. But I can't. The dam has broken, and years of pent-up frustration come flooding out.

"I don't want this dress. I don't want this wedding. I don't want to be married to Dmitri fucking Petrov!" My voice rises with each word, echoing off the dressing room’s mirrored walls.

"Vesper!" My mother hisses, her composure slipping. "That's quite enough!"

But I'm beyond caring. I reach behind me, fumbling for the zipper of the dress. "I'm done being your perfect, obedient daughter. I'm done pretending this is what I want!"

With a satisfying rip, I tear the delicate lace sleeve, the sound like music to my ears. My mother gasps in horror, while the dressmaker lets out a strangled cry. I rip, and twist until the dress falls free from my body in a pool at my feet. The silk slip underneath feels like a rush of freedom.

"Miss Rossi, please!" The dressmaker pleads, her hands outstretched as if to stop me. "That gown is worth?—"

"I don't care what it's worth!" I shout, yanking at the bodice. Another rip, and I feel a surge of twisted satisfaction. "It's not worth my freedom!"

My mother lunges forward, grabbing my wrists. "Stop this at once!" She turns to the shell-shocked dressmaker, her voice sickly sweet. "I'm so sorry, she's just nervous about the big day. Wedding jitters, you know how it is."

I wrench my hands free, stumbling backward. "Don't touch me! And stop lying! This isn't about wedding jitters. This is about you and Father treating me like a pawn in your sick games!"

Tears of frustration sting my eyes, but I blink them back furiously. I won't give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

"I want one choice," I say, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Just one. Is that really too much to ask?"

My mother's eyes narrow, a storm brewing behind her carefully composed features. She grabs my arm with surprising strength, her manicured nails digging into my skin as she drags me away from the bewildered dressmaker and into the main portion of her private bedroom.

The air around us feels thick with tension, the scent of expensive perfume and freshly steamed fabric suddenly cloying. Crystal chandeliers tinkle softly overhead, their delicate light catching on the sequins of nearby gowns only heightens my sense of disorientation.

"Vesper Alessandra Rossi," my mother hisses, her voice low and venomous. "You will cease this childish tantrum immediately. Your little act of rebellion won't change a thing. Your father set this in motion, and nothing you do or say will stop it."

I open my mouth to protest, but she cuts me off with a sharp gesture. "It's high time you grew up and faced reality. The world isn't some fairy tale where you get to choose your own path. There are obligations, alliances to be made and maintained. Your silly dreams of independence and choice? Those are luxuries we can't afford. You were born to marry a connected, wealthy man, and that’s what you’ll do. This is your duty to this family."

Her words cut deep, each syllable another nail in the coffin of my hopes. But the fire inside me refuses to be extinguished. "And what about my happiness?" I challenge, my voice quivering with emotion. "Does that mean nothing to you and Father?”

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