Page 1 of The Art of You

Chapter 1

Isabella

Hudson Yards, New York – October 2025

“Bella, you good?”Hudson’s deep voice cut through my closed bedroom door, but it wasn’t enough to jar me from my current, freaked-out state.

I couldn’t answer. Nor budge a step from where I stood by my bed like a Disney ice sculpture, chills flying up my spine in the sparkly dress. I was probably as transparent as glass, too.

My jaw muscles continued to shiver as I stared at the photo resting on my palm like a shard of broken glass, one flinch away from cutting me.

“Something wrong?” His follow-up was the gentle nudge in the ass I needed to open my mouth and talk.

If I didn’t answer him, he’d walk in and find me exposed. Well, not physically, but emotionally. “Uh, hold on.”

“Hold on to what exactly?” His smart-ass response finally pulled my attention toward the door and away fromthe picture.

“The zipper. I’m just having issues with it.” The lie nearly fractured apart on my distressed tone.

“Callie said you were dressed and ready.” He didn’t waste time calling me out on my bluff.

He was right, though. My sister-in-law had already helped me, leaving my room less than five minutes ago. Five minutes before I’d set eyes on the wicked blast from my past still searing the skin of my palm.

Forcing my feet to move, I went to the nightstand and hid the picture between two issues ofGolf Digest. Reading about golf, or watching it on TV, was my therapeutic version of sleep noise.

With the evidence of why I was a nervous mess out of sight, I slowly spun around to face the 1930s bespoke door. My designer had chosen to keep a few of the original elements of the almost hundred-year-old home during the remodel. Now I was regretting my decision not to suggest a lock.

And at the sight of the porcelain knob turning, Hudson’s patience apparently gone, I outstretched my arm as if I could telekinetically stop him. “Don’t come in or you’ll see me naked.”

“I don’t believe you.” Contrary to his words, the knob stopped turning.

My brain was still lagging, so I blundered my way through the lie and said, “Last-minute decision to use the bathroom before we go. You have to take the whole dress off or risk peeing on it.” It was no wonder the man would never see me as more than his best friend’s sister. Because, you know, discussing urinating on a ball gown was uber attractive.

“So, you need me to get her back up here to help you?”

I framed my face between my hands, checking to see if my skin felt normal to the touch.

“Or are you so stubborn you’re fixin’ to spend more time trying to wrangle it in place yourself?”

You could take the man out of Texas, but not Texas out of the man. At least he’d distracted me again. The color should’ve returned to my face by now. I needed to confirm what I hoped would be true—that I no longer looked like Casper’s cousin from an Italian mother.

“Too stubborn,” I finally called back, holding the skirt of my dress so I didn’t trip as I shuffled over to the antique mirror on the wall.

“Of course you are,” he grumbled loud enough for me to hear. His face was probably parked an inch away from the door, and it was likely taking all of his restraint not to open it.

“I really am on the verge of success.”In hiding my nerves, at least.

Dropping hold of the luxurious fabric, I checked myself in the mirror that once belonged to my Sicilian grandmother. The ghost staring back at me was the opposite of what I wanted to see.

My sister’s brown eyes beneath my dark brows observed me like I was a story just waiting to be told. Bianca was the writer in the family, but I highly doubted even she’d want to tackle the mess that I was and bundle it up into something worth telling.

Of course, my prologue started with her death. So, she couldn’t exactly pen anything, now could she?

I peeked back at the magazines, thinking about the photo again, and . . .I’m failing. How am I going to act normal tonight?

“From the sounds of the commotion downstairs, everyone is here now. They’ll be waiting on us.”

On me, you mean.My attention swung back to the white paneled door and my shoulders hunched forward. Hand to mystomach, the little beads and crystals of the bodice poked into my palm like thorns from a rose. Doubt they’d draw blood the way that photo nearly had, but I had to do something to pull myself together.

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