Silvia was wearing the gown—my gown—its skirt spreading at her feet like spilled champagne. She turned slowly in front of the mirror, smiling without a trace of burden, as if this were the most natural arrangement in the world. As if she had always been meant to stand there, draped in silk that had been cut to my measurements, fitted to my frame.
That gown was meant to belong to me alone.
From the sketches to the cut, from the Venetian lace to every hand-stitched pearl, I had personally approved each detail with Signora Marchetti. The old seamstress had once said it was less a dress than an obsession—a bride's armor for the day she would seal a blood-bound alliance between two of the most powerful families in the territory. And now that obsession was draped over someone else, displayed like a trophy already claimed.
"You're finally here," Silvia said first, her tone gentle, almost considerate. "We've all been waiting for you."
"Waiting for me?" I stepped closer, slowly, my heels clicking against the marble floor like the ticking of a clock counting down to something inevitable. "Or waiting for this moment?"