Page 66 of Devil's Tulip

I unzip the bag, and sure enough, a fluffy cloud of white fabric spills out. My heart sinks as reality hits. This is really happening.I’m getting married.And I’ve never felt more alone and scared in my life.

A warm hand covers mine, and I glance up to see Mrs. Monti watching me with a concerned frown. “I understand this isn’t a love match, darling, but you could do so much worse than Michael. I’ve known that boy since he was an unruly teenager. He’s weathered tremendous hardship, and he’s none the worse for it. He’s not cruel like many of the men in our mafia, and trust me, he had plenty of horrible examples he could’ve followed.”

What does that mean? That his dad was a cruel man? The men around him?

She continues, “I know there are rumors about him, and I can’t say they’re not true. But one thing I know for sure: he’s a fair master and fiercely protective. You’ll be safe with him.”

She’s trying to comfort me.I don’t know if it works, exactly, but some of my anxiety fades as I realize one thing—I’m notcompletelyalone. I give her a small smile. “Thank you.”

She is right. It could be worse.It could be Carlo.

Michael did betray me, and it will take a long time—if ever—for me to trust him the way I did before. But before everything fell apart, Ididtry to seduce him into falling for me because I knew he was a fair man.

Even though he hasn’t actually said the words, I know he’s sorry for the way things turned out with my uncle. Maybe this marriage is his way of trying to make it up to me.

What if it doesn’t end up being horrible? He did say I’d be free to pursue my dreams. And with him, I wouldn’t have to be on the run anymore. This doesn’t have to be a death sentence.

Mrs. Monti takes the dress bag from my hand. “Why don’t you take a long bath while I make arrangements for you here?”

“Arrangements?”

She just winks and steers me towards the ensuite. “Go on.”

I surrender to her gentle nudging and close the door behind me.

Even though I’ve let go of my fears—mostly—I still find myself lingering in the bath, stretching out the last moments of being Gianna Cabello. But at the same time, I’m anxious to get this over with. The faster we get through the ceremony, the sooner I can talk with Michael about what comes next. When do I get to start pursuing my dreams? What does he expect from me? What doIexpect from him?

I have no clue what the ceremony will be like, but I hope it’s short and to the point. This is no fairytale romance, after all. I certainly know there won’t be anyone on my side of the aisle. But what about Michael’s?

Mrs. Monti hinted that he had a rough childhood. Does that mean he isn’t close with his parents? Now that I think about it, I really don’t know anything about my husband-to-be. I need to change that.Later.

When I finally drain the tub and step out, I wrap a towel around myself and return to the bedroom. Mrs. Monti is waiting for me, holding up a soft robe.

As I slip into it, she gestures to a covered tray on the side table. “I brought you some breakfast.”

My stomach growls shamelessly, and I place a hand over it, a little embarrassed, but the housekeeper just smiles and waves me towards the food. “Eat up. It’s only right for a bride to be well-fed before making one of the biggest decisions of her life.”

Her words tug at something in my chest, but she simply turns away, fussing over something on the dresser, giving me space.

Perching on the edge of the bed, I lift the tray onto my lap. A full plate of bacon, eggs, sausages, and pancakes stare back at me. And they smell divine.

“Mrs. Monti, this is?—”

“Not too much,” she cuts in “And please, child, call me Gracie. ‘Mrs. Monti’ makes me feel ancient.”

I smile a little as I dig in. One might think such a life-altering day would kill my appetite. But apparently, my stomach didn’t get the memo.

When I finish my food, she waves me over to the chair in front of the dresser. “I don’t know how you youngins like your makeup done these days, but I can style your hair for you. I always wanted a daughter, but the good Lord called my husband home before blessing us with children.”

I’m not sure how to respond to that, and she doesn’t seem to expect me to. So I just wordlessly take the seat she offers.

She pulls my hair out of its bun, and as the strands fall past my waist, she lets out a pleased hum. “You have such pretty hair. Healthy too.”

“Thank you,” I murmur.

We lapse into silence as she works, the whir of the curling wand the only sound in the room. I try not to overthink what comes after this. No use in spiraling when it’s happening no matter what.

The minutes pass quickly, and she’s just about done running the hot wand through the last section of my hair when there’s a short knock on the door.

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