Page 137 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You
She smirks. “I will be. But all eyes will be on you tonight. You need to shower, do your hair, put on some makeup… look presentable.”
I frown, confused. “And why exactly is that?”
“You’ll see,” she says airily, already rifling through my closet. A moment later, she emerges with a white sequined dress and lays it across the bed. “You’re wearing this.”
“Octavia—”
“No arguments.” She crosses the room, takes my hand, and pulls me gently to my feet. “You can glare at me all you like later.”
I let her steer me toward the bathroom. Before closing the door behind me, she pauses, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
“Make an effort,” she says, lowering her voice. “We’ve got a very special guest tonight.”
I narrow my eyes. “What do you mean?”
She only grins, wiggling her brows. “You’ll see.”
And with that, she shuts the door before I can ask another word.
I shake my head, turn on the water, and let the sound fill the silence.
I undress and catch my reflection in the mirror. The scar along my abdomen is still pink, the stitches gone but the skin raised and tender. Faint bruises linger across my ribs and hips, fading from violet to gold. There’s still the imprint of the seatbelt across my chest.
I turn my back on my reflection and step into the shower. The water is hot, and I let it run over me until my skin begins to tingle.
I wash my hair and scrub the rest of my body, mindful of the time.
When I’m done, I turn off the tap, wrap myself in a towel, and step out.
In my room, I blow dry my hair and brush through it until it falls smooth and straight.
The white Chanel dress Octavia chose lies across the bed. I run my fingers over the fabric and sigh before turning to the wardrobe.
Inside, I let the towel fall and slip into a white lace bra and matching panties. I dress slowly, careful with every movement, then pull the dress over my head. The fabric settles against my skin as though it was made for me.
Back at the vanity, I plug in the curler and start on my hair, I’m in the mood for a few soft waves. It doesn’t take long.
When I’m done, I smooth a little moisturiser over my face before reaching for my makeup, a light foundation, a touch of blush, mascara, and a hint of gloss.
I step into the closet again and find a pair of white, glittering stilettos. When I slip them on, I finally look at myself in the mirror, pleased with what I see.
Then I glance at the clock on my nightstand, and curse under my breath. I’m late.
I take a breath and make my way downstairs. The hum of conversation carries up the staircase, laughter, the clink of glasses, soft music in the background.
As I reach the bottom step, my mother’s voice drifts through the house.
“Ophelia,” she calls, her voice warm.
Lucinda Bellanti.
She’s radiant, as always, delicate features, perfectly styled blonde hair, and an emerald green dress that fits her flawlessly.
Her eyes, however, have never lost their sadness.
My father’s shadow has always followed her, though she’s learned to carry it with grace.
“Merry Christmas, my little one,” she says, smiling as she pulls me into her arms. Her perfume, jasmine and rose, is achingly familiar, and somehow comforting.
