Chapter 29
2460words
My reflection looks nothing like me. Yes, it's my face with the right color eyes, the familiar cupid's bow mouth, but that's where it ends. The woman staring at me in the mirror, with her hair wound up in an elegant braid with white flowers woven through and sparse rouge on her cheeks, is a stranger.
Rubbing my hands down the wedding dress that squeezes my middle, I let out a sigh. Get it together, Camila. This is you. You chose this dress for this day. My inner voice doesn't help. I still feel like I'm out of my body, watching somebody else prepare for her wedding.
'Miss?" Ollie asks. 'Do you like it? Should I add more blush or thicker eyeliner?"
'You did great," I assure her gently.
'But … you barely have any makeup on."
That was intentional on my part. I've never been one for pounds of foundation or exaggerated styles. I thought that if I looked more like my usual self, I might be able to handle this day better.
Looking at my reflection again, I wonder if I made the wrong choice.
If I let Ollie lay the makeup on thick like an actual mask, I can pretend I really am someone else. I can really hide.
My drive to go the coward's route doesn't last long. Inhaling and then exhaling, I give a little spin. The silver heels, with their array of quarter-sized crystals, gleam. They're a perfect match for the gown that flows like milk poured from a carafe.
'How do I look?"
Ollie's eyes light up the way a child would on Christmas. She happens to be dressed in holiday colors as well: a green and red dress that tightens just under her breasts before flaring out like a baby doll. 'You look like a beautiful bride."
I stop short. The hem of the dress sways a bit longer from the momentum. No, I don't just look like a bride; I am a bride … even if I don't feel like it.
'Then I'm ready."
Ollie leads me out of the sitting room. The mansion is quieter than usual; I don't see anyone on the walk through the parlor. I slow down as we pass Asher's bedroom.
'The car is waiting, miss," she urges me.
'Where's Asher?"
'He's gone on ahead." She notices me looking at his door and gives me a dubious squint. 'The groom can't see the bride before the wedding. That's bad luck, remember?"
'Can't have more of that," I chuckle sarcastically.
Ollie closes the distance between us. Gently, in a way that reminds me of how Adriana would do it—and makes me miss my friend even more—she pats my shoulder. 'Are you having second thoughts?"
It's a struggle not to laugh rudely. I'm on my way to fourth and fifth, I think. 'Why are you asking that, Ollie?"
Her expression is loaded with affection. 'Because if I was in your shoes, I'd be sprinting out the door. You seem to be finding little ways here and there to delay this."
Bunching my hands in the front of my dress, I make a split-second decision to be honest. It's foolish—the girl works for Asher—but what have I got to lose anymore?
'This isn't how I pictured my wedding," I admit quietly. 'Nobody I know will be there."
'You know me." She offers a warm smile.
I think she's teasing me, but the raw sincerity in her eyes says otherwise. Disarmed by her comment, I deflate on the spot. My hand winds into hers, tugging her to the exit. 'You're absolutely right."
Ollie beams happily at my response. She opens the front door for me, waving me through. I step into the light, grateful to have a reason—even an ominous one—to be free of the mansion again. There are three men outside on the driveway next to a pair of white Escalades in place of the usual black ones.
I recognize Kostya instantly, his bald head shining in the sunlight.
He sees me and scowls. 'Come on," he grouses. 'Get in the car."
'Are you driving?" I ask suspiciously. He gives me awful vibes. I do not want to be alone with him.
His frown spreads wider. 'No. I'll remain here on guard duty." He sounds annoyed.
I guess only some of the soldiers are allowed at the wedding. How does Asher decide who gets picked for special events and who stays behind to watch an empty house?
Kostya adjusts his gun in its holster, and I spy the new bandages on his left hand. Looks like he still isn't healed yet from whatever happened to him the other day.
'Stop delaying," he grumbles. 'Or do you need me to force you into the car?"
Drawing myself up, I challenge him with my shoulders pulled back. I must look hilarious to be facing off with an armed man in my wedding dress.
'What's happening?" Layla rounds into view from behind the first car. Her typical outfit has been replaced by an ankle-length gown the color of a stormy sky. The beading on the hem is as metallic as the rims on the cars. She's pulled her hair into a high updo that draws attention to her thick makeup.
'Kostya!" she snaps like an owner reprimanding a dog.
The man shrinks at the tone in her voice. 'Apologies. I was only reminding the mistress of the time."
'That is not what Asher Volkov instructed you to do," she scolds him. Her attention flies to Ollie, who has been lingering nearby looking anxious. 'You. In the other car. Now."
While Ollie hurries into the rear-most Escalade, Layla opens the back door of the first. I peer inside; it's empty.
'I'm riding alone?" I don't know the man at the steering wheel. The idea of being with a stranger when I'm vulnerable, on the verge of running or puking, isn't fun.
'No," she says, giving my shoulder a light pat. 'I'll be up front. Now, please, so we don't have to rush."
She helps me into the back seat, closing me in. The sound of the door shutting alarms me. Even though she's right in front, close enough to touch, I still feel alone. Not, not feel, I tell myself. I am alone. There's no one here who's my ally.
The driver starts the car, taking us through the tall, spiked gates. I peek back to make sure the other car is following. I can't see Ollie through the tint. As we drive, I take note of which roads we turn on. I have no clue where we're going. My wedding feels more like a surprise party. I'm in the dark on every aspect of it.
'Would you like some music?" Layla asks. 'Anything in particular? Classical, perhaps, since you like the ballet?"
Pushing my lips together, I think it over. 'How about some pop?"
She lifts her brows to her hairline. 'Pop …?"
Chuckling, the driver flicks on the radio. Doja Cat begins blasting out of the speakers. Layla's shocked face has me covering my mouth to stifle my giggles. It's almost enough to cheer me up, helping me forget what I'm on my way to do.
This music reminds me of Adriana. And suddenly, I'm bombarded by memories of bribing bartenders to play music we liked—always something high energy that's fun to dance to, especially when drunk—and stumbling back to her house while belting out the lyrics and leaning on each other as we laughed.
I was her maid of honor, and I thought for sure she'd be mine. My hands bunch up in my dress, and I fight back the tears as the car carries me toward Asher. The reality of what is about to happen is like a splash of ice water on my face, washing away the memories of the searing lust that overwhelmed us the night before.
I wish she was here. When I get married ... for real married ... she'll be at my side. I just have to endure this. Everything will be okay. My confidence starts rising, until we turn the corner.
And I see it.
The outside of the church is a geometric fortress. It's a replica of the tattoo on Asher's back, but in color. Spires shine like golden fire in the sun; the white of the stone is brighter than my wedding dress. It has to be thirty feet tall. It might as well be a behemoth. Intimidated by the sight of it, I freeze up inside the car. 'This way," Layla says, hopping out and opening my door.
Not looking at her, I shake my head. 'I can't."
'You must." Her voice is hard as iron.
Fidgeting with the ring on my finger, I close my eyes, trying to find some source of courage. Think of what Dad would say. Scrunching my face, I recall the day of my ballet show. It's not the made-up fears in our heads we should get trapped in; it's the joy we share with others.
But what joy is here? Not mine. I doubt Asher is happy either.
Lust isn't love.
The fears aren't made up this time, Dad.
My eyes snap open. Layla is watching me with concern, creating wrinkles on her forehead. 'Camila, please."
'No time for a pep talk?" I chuckle cynically. 'Maybe remind me that I have to do unthinkable things for survival?"
Her eyes overflow with anguish. 'Do you feel that marrying him will be that awful?"
Instead of answering, I climb out of the car.
There are men everywhere. Though they're dressed in sharp suits like you'd expect at a special event, I know a performance when I see one. If I look carefully, I can spot how they tuck their hands under their jackets, fingering something solid. Guns. All of them are Asher's soldiers, each of them armed to the teeth.
The queasy pit of unease gets deeper when we enter the church. The stained-glass windows are beautiful pieces of art. Shadowy figures move beyond them. Other people shift in the nave, not from nerves but paranoia. He's placed men everywhere. Ninety percent of the attendees are killers who work for Asher. The rest are the house staff, though I bet they're armed, too.
He expects Yannick to show up. Thinking back to Mila's recent meeting, I know I'm right. She knew the date of the wedding before I did. Asher is orchestrating a booby trap for his enemy. And I am the bait. I still don't understand what he wants from me. I've never met Yannick; I only know his name thanks to Asher.
I should have asked Mila more questions when I had the chance. Mila ... where is she? Searching the church, I confirm she's nowhere to be found. Then I feel silly; of course I don't see her. She'd be a terrible assassin if I did.
Layla puts her hand out to halt me from going further. Looking ahead, I spot the altar that's decorated with ivy wreaths, the green leaves flecked by spots of color. Roses. Are they from Asher's garden? A priest in elaborate, full-length robes stands like a sentinel at the end of the aisle. His eyes track to Layla. He doesn't smile, doesn't speak, but something is communicated.
'Follow me," she whispers.
My heels inch forward. An orchestra of music pipes from speakers on the walls of the large room. Brass and strings work together to create classical wedding music. All the eyes in the church shift to me. If you didn't know the situation, you would look at the scene and think, Yes, a perfect wedding is unfolding here.
Swallowing the hard ball in my throat, I follow Layla down the aisle. My legs feel like bloated river logs, and moving them takes incredible effort. It's a miracle I reach the priest without falling. Now that I'm up close, I see that he's quite old. There are brown spots making a pattern on his forehead, his hair as pale as my face. He carries himself with an air of reverence. Not the cocky energy Asher boasts, but something that makes me recall the natural respect I had for my father.
He offers me a benign smile. When he looks over my head, my heart strains to contain itself. I know what I'll see before I turn.
Asher is dressed in a tapered suit the color of aged wine. His hair is slicked back more than usual, giving his features a precise, sharper look. It's the impression of a shark swimming toward me through the waves. Confidence wafts off him from a distance. This man is built differently … a person who inherently knows he's the most important person in the room. Air strains my lungs; I let it out, not noticing I was holding it in.
He climbs the steps to stand beside me. I'm used to him undressing me with his eyes. Today is different. He's not stripping me bare with a look; it's more like he's absorbing me … locking the moment into memory.
This event is a show. He shouldn't be allowed to stare at me with admiration. He should be distracted, walled up.
I want him to act like he's ready to marry me. Not actually look my way with the raw emotion of a man ready to spend the rest of his years at my side.
Layla extends her arms over my head. She's gripping a gorgeous crown, the tips sharp as rose thorns, the metal winding like snakes. It's as gold as the church spires outside. Where did she get that from? I wasn't around for my parents' wedding. I wonder if they followed these same ancient customs as well when they were married.
I wait for her to place the crown on my head. But she doesn't. From the corner of my eye, I see a man beside Asher doing the same to him, holding a slightly different crown over him. The pair wait patiently for some sign to set the crowns upon us.
'The rings," the priest whispers for just our ears. Asher pulls a silvery band from his suit pocket. The priest looks pointedly at me.
I blink as panic grips me in its icy fist. 'Wait, I didn't bring?—"
Layla makes a soft noise in her throat; she's holding out a ring in her palm, at hip height, away from the crowd. Only we and the priest can see. Though I'm grateful not to have gotten caught in a mistake, I'm uneasy when I take the ring. It's cold to the touch.
Is it the metal, or is it because all the blood has left my body?
