Page 90 of Tarnished Queen

Instead, I'm alone with a group of strangers, about to marry a man for whom “love” is just another four-lettered word.

“Forget the matching eyeshadow,” the makeup artist finally says. I think her name is Amanda. Or maybe Annie. She doesn’t seem to care what my name is, so I decide not to worry about hers. She grabs my chin and turns my face from side to side. “We’ll do a bit of white eyeliner and some nude shimmer on the lid.”

I don’t know a thing about makeup, but she must notice my expression because she wags a finger at me. “Don’t give me any of that sass. You’ve put your face in my hands. I know what I’m doing.”

“Go ahead,” I mumble. “I surrender all creative control to you.”

Mostly because if it was up to me, I’d use the same shine control powder I’ve used since high school, pat on some pink blush, and swipe on my favorite strawberry chapstick.

“And me,” the hairdresser says. Her name is easy to remember because it’s stitched above the pocket on her shirt that holds a comb and an extra pair of scissors: Kara. “I would have loved to see you a few weeks ago so we could have done a deep conditioning treatment and some honey blonde highlights, but this will do.”

“‘This will do.’ High praise,” I mutter sarcastically. I’m being bitchy, I know that, but I just can’t shake the sourness creeping in at the edges of my mood.

Kara smiles at my reflection in the mirror. “I didn’t mean it like that. You’re gorgeous. But there’s always room for improvement. Nothing is perfect.”

“You can say that again.”

If today was perfect, Elise would be sitting in the chair next to me. Unlike me, she’d love getting dolled up by two professionals. For her last school dance, I couldn’t afford to get her hair done at a salon, so I watched approximately one trillion video tutorials on YouTube and did it myself. After two hours of arm cramps and arguing, we ended up with a slightly lopsided, but still pretty braided bun that made her look like a Greek goddess.

I’m tempted to pull out my phone and scroll back through the pictures I took of her in front of my apartment door, but I don’t want to cry off all of the makeup artist’s hard work. Because she wasn’t wrong—the white eyeliner really makes my hazel eyes pop.

I’m about to tell her that when there’s a knock at the door. Everyone in the room acts like a bomb went off.

“The ceremony isn’t for another two hours. No one should be here,” the planner groans.

“Don’t come in!” Kara screams. “The bride is in her dress. No grooms allowed.”

“I’m not the groom,” a male voice responds. “I have a delivery.”

I don’t recognize the voice, but when Kara carefully opens the door, I see Makar standing in the hallway.

“Is everything alright?” I ask in alarm.

I’m imagining invading forces marching through the reception hall. Or maybe Nikolai has fled the building. It would be unlike him to retreat, but maybe the thought of marrying me was enough to send him running for the hills.

“Everything is fine. The security team is on the perimeter. No alarms raised yet.”

“Did Nikolai send you to get me?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No. He doesn’t know I’m here.”

Amanda and Kara are busying themselves with other tasks. So long as the person at the door isn’t the groom, they don’t seem to care who's here to see me.

I wish they did. Makar and I haven’t spoken since the day he made known he thought I was a traitor. He isn’t exactly the first familiar face I’d choose to see on my wedding day.

“Okay,” I say, trying to keep the suspicion out of my voice. “So what’s going on?”

In response, Makar holds out a long, thin black box with a gold ribbon. “It’s a gift. From me and some of the guys.”

“A gift?” I frown. “Like a wedding present? I thought the groom usually did that.”

Makar shrugs. “I’m sure Nikolai will give you something. He’s traditional that way.”

I snort. “I don’t know if that’s the first word I’d choose to describe him.”

“Well, he decided to marry you,” Makar says.

I still, slowly looking up at him. His expression is pleasant enough, but something about what he’s saying feels insulting. It’s made even worse by the fact that I can’t decide if I should be offended or not.

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