My breath curled into pale wisps, each exhale vanishing into the sharp winter air. The Chicago chill clung to me, biting through the layers of my thick wool coat as we walked along the icy pavement, the crunch of snow beneath my boots the only sound I focused on. The redbrick buildings lining the street stood tall and silent, like cold witnesses to my fate.
Ahead, the boutique loomed—sleek glass, golden accents, and glowing windows promising luxury. Inside waited the finest bridal gowns in the Midwest.
My mother led the way, her posture elegant and unreadable. I followed, flanked by Salvatore, my ever-watchful shadow, and another soldier trailing Savannah and Lily.
Golden brass doors spun us into a burst of warm air and soft perfume. The boutique sparkled, all crystal chandeliers and plush cream carpets. The owner approached like royalty greeting her court, flanked by two assistants dressed in black.
"Happy birthday, Miss Carter," she chirped, her smile a little too wide, a little too polished.
I offered a tight nod. Eighteen. It should've meant freedom, excitement, possibility. But for me, it marked the end of choice. Just another step closer to being handed off to Liam Romano like an inheritance.
I hadn't seen him since the night he bloodied Rico. Since then, he'd sent jewelry—cold, expensive silence in velvet boxes. Not a single note. Not a word.
Meanwhile, gossip sites had been flooded with pictures. Liam draped in tailored suits and surrounded by women whose names I didn't need to know. That life would end today, at least on paper. Our engagement was going public.
Not that I was naïve. He would keep sleeping with them—just more discreetly. And honestly, I didn't care. As long as he didn't touch me, I could stomach it.
"Only six months until your big day, if I'm not mistaken?" the owner beamed, clasping her hands together like this was her wedding.
I nodded, slow and steady. One hundred sixty-six days until I walked into another golden prison.
Savannah shot me a sideways glance, her lips twitching in restrained amusement. At sixteen, she was learning how to hold her tongue—at least most of the time.
We were ushered into the private fitting suite—a plush room of mirrors, velvet curtains, and far too much white. Salvatore and the other guard posted up outside. Lily and Savannah collapsed dramatically onto the couch like it was just another shopping trip.
Mother was already flipping through the racks with elegant precision. I remained frozen in the center, surrounded by lace and silk, beads and sequins. Ivory, champagne, alabaster—every shade of purity.
The walls whispered lies in cursive lettering: Love is Forever, Dream Dress, Dream Day. Mockery in script.
I forced my feet to move, joining Mother in her search. My back straightened. My face a mask. No one could know I wasn't here by choice.
The owner approached, wearing a curated smile. "Do you know what style your fiancé prefers?"
"The naked kind," Savannah said flatly.
Mother's head whipped around. "Savannah."
Heat rushed to my cheeks, but the owner only laughed. "Well, there's time for that on the wedding night, don't you think?" She winked, and I had to fight the urge to recoil.
I reached for the most expensive gown I could see—a brocade masterpiece embroidered with pearls and platinum thread that shimmered like ice.
"Platinum," the owner sighed. "Your groom will be thrilled."
Would he? Liam Romano was still a stranger, no matter what ring he'd placed on my finger.
* * *
The wedding would be held in the gardens of the Romano estate in the Hamptons. Word of it had already begun to circulate—among the elite, the press, the underworld.
I'd never seen the estate. I didn't want to. My mother kept talking about layout, floral arrangements, imported champagne—as if any of it mattered.
That afternoon, we flew into New York. My sisters and I were tucked into a suite at the Mandarin Oriental. Marcus Romano had offered rooms at the estate, but my father declined. Three years of forced cooperation hadn't bred trust.
Thank God. I wasn't ready to live in that house until I had no choice.
My sisters and I shared one suite. My parents another. Salvatore and another soldier were stationed just outside the door.
Lily lay upside-down on the couch, twirling a strand of her golden hair. "Do we really have to go to the bridal shower tomorrow?"
She was fourteen but had the mouth and confidence of someone older. Savannah once said she looked like a model from a perfume ad—too perfect, too sharp, and entirely aware of it.
"Nabokov would've had a field day with her," Savannah once muttered, and it had never left my mind.
"I don't want to go either," Savannah groaned. "But Emily's the picture-perfect bride, remember?"
Lily snorted. "Picture perfect my ass."
She shot upright. "I'm bored. Let's go shopping."
Salvatore groaned from the doorway. "Do you think I enjoy chasing three of you through the city like a damn babysitter?"
"You love us," Lily said sweetly, batting her lashes.
"I fear for the world when you hit eighteen," he muttered.
He tried to resist. He always did.
And, like always, he gave in.