Page 40 of Devious Kingpin
As I stepped out of the bathroom, I fully expected my bridesmaids to be gone. They weren’t. They sat on the bed, quietly, their eyes locked on me and frozen smiles on their faces.
“We have to be ready in thirty minutes,” Wynter announced calmly. “Or Uncle Liam is taking over.”
No reply.
I walked past them and toward the wedding dress someone else had picked out that hung over the door by the tall standing mirror.
“Jules—” Wynter attempted softly, but I was quick to react.
“Please don’t,” I warned, my tone sharp. “Let’s not throw cheerleading bullcrap into the mix and pretend this is what I want.” My cousin flinched and a flicker of regret passed through me. Being the bitch that I was, I didn’t stop there. “You’re fine with being manhandled. I’m not. Dante is not what I wanted.”
“That’s not fair,” Davina chimed in, her gaze narrowed on me. “You got married all on your own. Liam wants it formalized and we’re here to help. So don’t you fucking dare act like this is because of any of us.”
We stared at each other in thick silence. Resentful silence. Bottom line was that Davina was right. I knew it; they knew it. Alas, it didn’t make this situation better. If anything, it made it worse because it made me hate myself even more.
And there was plenty of self-hate going around.
Davina’s brows shot up, challenging me to contradict her. “Fine, tell me where you want me.”
A terse nod by my stepmother.Stepmother.This really has to be what hell feels like, I thought for the second time that morning.
Today for the first time, though, she was actually acting like a stepmother. Up until now, she was always just my friend.
“Good,” she said calmly, offering me a smile. As if she knew this was hard for me, but promised it’d be better. It wouldn’t be. Nobody knew how deep my issues ran. “Now, let’s do your hair and makeup first.”
A few beats passed. Another nod as I swallowed the thickening lump in my throat. I sucked in a lungful of air, then padded across the floor to the dresser. Davina quickly typed on her phone and the knock sounded on the door the next second.
Emory jumped up and rushed to open the door. “Here is the makeup artist and stylist,” she announced. “Ummm, I don’t think you need me. I’m gonna just—” Wynter, Davina, and Ivy gave her curious looks, but I just shrugged. It didn’t matter whether she was here or out there. I’d still be forced to be in the same position. “Yeah, okay. I’ll see you later,” she murmured, then disappeared.
The door shut behind her with a soft click, and I watched in tense silence as the makeup artist, hairstylist, and seamstress set themselves up. Next thing I knew, there was poking, prodding, and preparing. I felt like an animal being readied for the slaughter.
My scalp protested at the tugs. My skin stung as makeup was applied. The room was uncomfortably quiet, which was a novelty. For me and my friends at least. Next I was shoved into a corset, then the wedding dress full of silk, lace, and shit that I would have never regularly worn. The seamstress slid a lace garter up my thigh and I clenched my jaw, swallowing the words that burned at the tip of my tongue.
The seamstress bolted upright and clapped her hands, making me jump out of my skin.
“All finished!” she exclaimed, like it was the biggest achievement of her life. “Magnifique!”
A string of French words followed, though by the look on all our faces, it was clear, none of us understood a single word aftermagnifiqueand stared at her blankly. I couldn’t stop an eye roll. Nobody here was French, so I wasn’t sure why she switched languages.
She paused for a moment, as if expecting a response. “Thanks,” I mumbled as my chest tightened. It was getting harder to breathe. So I focused on the dressmaker. She was younger than I’d initially thought. Her eyes were brown and light freckles covered her nose and cheeks. Her golden hair was pulled up in a slick, fashionable ponytail. “Are you really French?”
She kneeled, busying herself with this fancy dress. She was efficient and seemed to know what she was doing. “Yes, I am.”
Her English was perfect. No accent at all.
“What’s your name?”
“Billie Swan.”
I frowned. Maybe she was pulling my leg. “That name doesn’t sound French. And when you speak English, there’s no accent.”
She shrugged as she busied herself fixing the hem of my wedding dress. A needle and thread in her hand, I watched her fingers expertly push into the material, disappear and then reappear. With each stitch, the tightness in my chest loosened. “My mother was American. After she died, mon père”—I assumed that meant father… my French was virtually non-existent—“he packed us up and moved us back to France.”
She stood up, eyeing me critically as if searching for faults. There were so many; I wondered if she could see them. Then she beamed. “You’re ready and the dress fits you perfectly.”
Her brown eyes met mine, shining with self-satisfaction. “Je te souhaite tout le meilleur pour ton mariage.” When I gave her a blank look, she added, “Best wishes for your wedding.”
I sighed. I’d need all the good luck I could get.
