Page 21 of Bloody Vows
I wish he’d picked out something ugly. It makes it worse that it’s somehow very much what I would have chosen for myself.
"This one is absolutely divine on you, Miss Russo," the boutique owner gushes from behind me. The dressisbeautiful—ivory silk with delicate lace appliqués along the full skirt, the sweetheart neckline modest enough for church but stillflattering. It has thin straps and a lace jacket that can be worn for the ceremony and discarded for the reception. "The way it hugs your figure is just perfection. You don’t even need this altered, really—you’re lucky you fit the sample sizes."
I stare at my reflection in the three-way mirror, and for a moment, I can almost pretend this is normal. That I'm a bride excited about her upcoming wedding, choosing a dress for the man she loves rather than the man who's claimed her like property.
But the illusion doesn't last long.
"It's lovely," I say, running my hands down the silk skirt. "I'll take it." It’s the most expensive one, and Tristan is paying, so that brings me a small amount of joy. I liked all of the dresses, truthfully, so I had to find some other way to choose. It’s hard to feel that sensation of findingthe Onewhen I desperately want to find some way out of my wedding, instead.
The woman beams, clearly thrilled by the sale. The fitting takes another hour, with the seamstress making careful notes about alterations, which are still necessary despite the saleswoman’s flattery. The dress will be ready with two days to spare, which is cutting it close, but should be enough time for any final adjustments. Everything about this wedding is being rushed, planned in two weeks instead of the months or even years that most brides get.
But then, I'm not most brides.
After the boutique, there's the florist, where I choose white roses and baby's breath because they're classic and I can't bring myself to care about anything more elaborate. Then the caterer, who presents me with a dozen different menu options that all sound equally fine. I pick at random, nodding and signing contracts like an automaton.
This should be the happiest time of my life. I should be glowing with excitement, calling my friends to share every detail,spending hours debating whether the centerpieces should be tall or short. Instead, I feel like I'm planning my own funeral.
I don’t have close friends. I don’t have parents any longer. I have Nora, but I can’t lean on her to help me plan a wedding, not when she has plenty to keep her occupied as it is. That’s hardly fair. I’m alone in all of this, without a mother or best friends to help me plan and to coo over gowns and flowers and cake flavors with me, to help me with all of the myriad decisions that have to be made. My friendships were carefully managed by my father, limited to the daughters of other crime families. Women who would understand my situation, but who I've never been close enough to confide in.
It's been a week since Tristan put that ring on my finger, and I haven't seen him since. He's been busy with the business side of things, meeting with lawyers and accountants and various crime family representatives to formalize the transfer of power. Occasionally, Nora will mention that he called to check on wedding preparations, but he never asks to speak to me directly. I’m sure he doesn’t care about the choices themselves—he just wants to make sure it’s getting done. Konstantin has checked in as well.
I’m relieved that I haven’t had to see him again. That moment will come all too soon. I can feel it looming over my shoulder, and I’m both desperate to stave it off and to get it over with.
Nora and I eat dinner together, alone in the dining room. When I go back upstairs for the night, I pause in front of my vanity, looking down at the ring sparkling on my finger. It’s beautiful. It’s very muchme. And I hate it.
I reach for it, yanking it off of my finger hard enough that my nails scratch my skin. It stings, but I don’t care. If Tristan isn’t here, if he’s not bothering to see me until the wedding, then I don’t need to wear it. I’ll put it back on for my wedding day.
Of course, as luck would have it, the next day he appears at the mansion without invitation or warning.
I meet him in the formal living room, more flustered than I would have liked. I was in the middle of fielding calls to wedding vendors, all of whom are requiring astronomical fees to throw this together in such a rush, when Nora told me that Tristan was waiting to speak to me. The look on her face told me that he wasn’t in the mood to wait much longer.
I had half a mind to make him wait as long as I pleased. I let him stew for another fifteen minutes before I made my way across the house to the living room, finding him leaning up against the mantle of the rarely used fireplace, his expression irritated.
“You made me wait,” he says without preamble, and I shrug.
“I was busy with wedding vendors. The wedding—I’ll remind you—that you made me plan in two weeks.” I huff out a breath. “What do you want?”
He starts to open his mouth, and then his gaze drops, landing on my left hand.
Mybareleft hand.
His jaw tightens. “Where is it?”
I meet his gaze without flinching. “Where’s what?”
“Don’t play games with me, Simone,” he warns, his voice dropping dangerously low. “Why aren’t you wearing my ring?”
The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with answers that I don’t want to give him. Because wearing his ring makes this feel real. Because the weight of the diamond on my finger reminds me every second of what I've lost and what I'm about to become. Because I know it would please him if I did.
But I can't say any of that. It would give him too much power. The last thing I want is for Tristan O’Malley to know anything about what I’m feeling.
"Because I don't want to," I say instead, lifting my chin defiantly.
The muscle in his jaw leaps, and I can see his eyes darken. "That's not good enough."
I shrug. I can tell I’m pissing him off, and I don’t know what the consequences of that might be. I’m not sure that I care. "It's the only answer you're getting."
Instead of answering back, he pushes past me, striding for the door. I’m briefly frozen with confusion before I hurry after him. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
