Page 97 of Dance of Deception

“But you look fucking amazing.”

I know I should feelsomething. Excitement. Nerves. The thrill of anticipation. Fuck, even fear.

Nope. I just feel numb.

The mirror in front of me reflects a stranger. A girl all in white, her red hair falling in perfect waves over the delicate lace. Her eyes are vacant, as if it's someone else’s life she's watching unfold.

Milena stands behind me, her fingers fastening the last pearl button on my gown. The fabric is exquisite—hand-stitched French gossamer with intricate beading that probably took artisans months to complete. It’s a dress fit for royalty. But in the mirror, I don't see a queen. Not a bargaining chip. Not even a sacrificial lamb.

Just a girl trying to get through the next few hours without her brain eating itself alive.

Milena smirks, adjusting my veil. “You know, your garter would be agreatplace to hide a flask…”

I snort. “Tempting. But no.”

She tilts her head. “Seriously, how’re you doing? I mean, mentally.”

I exhale slowly. “Like I’m about to do something huge and I have no idea if I’m ready?”

Milena grins. “Sounds about right.” She nudges my arm. “Just remember: you’re allowed to feel normal human emotions about a wedding.”

I roll my eyes. “Iamfeeling emotions. I just—can’t decide which ones yet.”

She smirks. “Bitch, that’s called being twenty-one.”

Before I can reply, the door bangs open.

Vera.

Wearingwhite.

Milena’s brows shoot up, her eyes dragging over my mother’s outfit, complete with lace roses and shawl.

“Isthatwhat you’re wearing today, Mrs. Ostrova?”

Vera lifts her chin, smoothing a hand down the shimmering silk of her dress. “Of course.” There’s a trace of indignation in her voice, but mostly, there’s pride.

Milena and I exchange alook.

Vera steps further into the room, surveying me like a jeweler inspecting a gemstone. Her lips purse in thought, then curve into not-quite-a-smile. “You should be grateful. Most girls would kill to be in your position.”

I say nothing.

She exhales dramatically, the sound weighty with self-importance. “Meanwhile, I’m still rotting away in thatcharmingHell’s Kitchen apartment while you’re living in a goddamn Central Park mansion.”

She steps toward me, fingers tracing lightly over the beading on my gown. “Nice,” she murmurs. “Custom, I assume?”

I nod stiffly.

Vera turns to the mirror, humming as if she’s the one being admired. “And to think, we barely used to scrape by.” She flicks her gaze back to me, sharp and assessing. “Well?”

I frown. “Well…what?”

She exhales dramatically. “Theliving situations, Lyra. It’s not a good look for you to be where you are while I’m still languishing in that moldy roach hotel. What are you going to do about it?”

I don’t know how to answer that.

Vera tilts her head. “Don’t play dumb, Lyra. You’ve never been good at it. What I’m saying is—fix it.”

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