Page 59 of Made for Saints

The morning of Adrianna’s bridal shower was supposed to be relaxing. A chance to celebrate my best friend and her upcoming marriage, sip champagne, and pretend for a few hours that my life wasn’t a tangled mess of obligations and unspoken rules. But instead, I found myself standing in front of the bathroom mirror, a towel wrapped around me, my hair dripping wet, and my nerves fraying by the second.

The remnants of my earlier attempt at hair and makeup were scattered across the counter—foundation bottles knocked over, a curling iron still plugged in, and a lipstick tube rolling dangerously close to the edge. It had all started with one of my brothers’ girlfriends—Jenna, I think—insisting I try her favorite hair and makeup artist. “He’s a genius,” she’d said. “You’ll look like a goddess.”

Genius, my ass. The second I’d caught sight of myself in the mirror, I’d nearly screamed. The makeup was too heavy, the contouring so sharp it looked like I was auditioning for a drag show, and my hair—oh, God, my hair. It had been teased within an inch of its life, the curls so tight and unnatural that I looked like a deranged pageant queen.

I thanked the artist through gritted teeth, paid him, and then promptly jumped into the shower to wash it all off. Which left me here, with five minutes to get ready and absolutely no time to panic.

A knock on the front door echoed through the house,followed by the low murmur of voices. Dante. Of course, he was here already. Punctual as ever, because God forbid he give me even a minute of breathing room. I could hear his voice—deep, commanding, and far too close for comfort—as he spoke to one of the housekeepers.

I slammed the bathroom door shut, locking it for good measure. The last thing I needed was for him to see me like this, half-dressed and frazzled, with mascara smudged under my eyes and a towel slipping dangerously low on my chest.

“Get it together, Emilia,” I muttered to myself, grabbing the blow dryer with one hand and a makeup brush with the other. Multitasking wasn’t exactly my forte, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

By the time I emerged from my room, I was five minutes late and barely holding it together. My hair was still damp at the ends, my makeup rushed but passable, and my dress—a simple, pale blue satin number—clung to my still-warm skin. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do.

Dante was waiting in the foyer, leaning against the banister with the kind of casual arrogance that made my blood boil. He was dressed in a dark suit, the fabric tailored to perfection, and his tie was just loose enough to give him that maddeningly effortless look. He glanced up as I descended the stairs, his dark eyes flicking over me once before returning to his phone.

Nothing. No smirk, no comment, not even a raised eyebrow. Just a single, dismissive glance before he went back to whatever text or email had his attention.

I froze on the last step, my hand gripping the railing as a wave of embarrassment crashed over me. Did I look that bad? Was it obvious I’d thrown myself together at the last minute? My stomach twisted, and I smoothed my hands over my dress, suddenly hyper aware of every wrinkle, every imperfection.

“Are you ready?” he asked without looking up, his voice as indifferent as ever.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to nod. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

The car ride was silent, the tension between us thick and suffocating. I kept my gaze fixed on the window, watching the city blur past as I tried to ignore the gnawing insecurity eating away at me. But it was impossible not to notice the little things—the way he’d adjusted the air conditioning to just the right temperature, the way the seat was tilted slightly forward, like he’d remembered how I hated feeling like I was sinking into the car. And then there was the water bottle.

It was sitting in the cupholder on my side, the condensation beading on the plastic. I stared at it for a moment, my mind racing as I tried to remember if I’d mentioned my habit of keeping a water bottle in my bag—or the fact that I’d forgotten one today.

“Why is there a water bottle here?” I asked finally, breaking the silence.

He glanced at me briefly, his expression unreadable. “My assistant probably put it there.”

I frowned, studying his face for any hint of a lie. But if he was bluffing, he was damn good at it. “Your assistant?”

“Yeah,” he said, his tone flat. “She stocks the car. Snacks, water, whatever. It’s not that deep, princess.”

I bristled at the nickname, but I didn’t press the issue. Instead, I reached for the water bottle, twisting off the cap and taking a long sip. The cool liquid soothed my dry throat, but it did little to calm the storm brewing in my chest.

I fidgeted with the cap, twisting it back and forth as the silence stretched on. Dante’s hands were steady on the wheel, his gaze fixed on the road, but I could feel his attention flickering toward me every so often, like he was waiting for me to say something.

“What’s wrong?” he asked suddenly, his voice laced with impatience.

“Nothing,” I said quickly, too quickly.

He sighed, rolling his eyes as he switched lanes. “You’re lying.”

I clenched my jaw, my fingers tightening around the waterbottle. “I said it’s nothing.”

“Bullshit,” he shot back, his tone sharper now. “Spit it out.”

I hesitated, my gaze dropping to my lap. The last thing I wanted was to admit how insecure I was feeling, especially not to him. But the weight of his stare was too much, and the words tumbled out before I could stop them.

“I hated my makeup,” I said quietly, my voice barely above a whisper. “And my hair. The stylist made me look like...like someone else. So I washed it all off and had to do it myself. That’s why I’m late.”

He didn’t respond right away, and I risked a glance at him, half-expecting to see amusement or judgment in his expression. But his face was unreadable, his jaw tight as he kept his eyes on the road.

“You look great,” he said finally, his voice low and almost...hesitant.

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