CHAPTER 30
BRENDA'S POV
Everyone was running up and down getting ready for the party that lay just a few hours ahead. The farmhouse no longer felt quiet and rustic — it felt alive, almost feverish. Footsteps echoed against the stone floors, doors opened and shut, laughter mixed with sharp commands in rapid Italian. The air carried the scent of sugar, wine, perfume, and polished wood all at once.
I sat on a table that was near the front door, throwing huge juicy grapes into my mouth as I watched the ongoing activities. The grapes were still warm from the sun, their skins tight and glossy, bursting the second my teeth pierced through.
From the pastry chef who screamed his lungs out because the cake wasn't as good as he thought it'd turn out to be — his white apron dusted in flour, his hands dramatically thrown in the air as though the cake had personally betrayed him.
Men rolling about four huge barrels of wine into the house, their arms straining, boots dragging against the stone floor. The wooden barrels thudded heavily with each shift. I did wonder why they needed all those grapes.
To the endless dresses and suits that were carried into the house — fabrics in deep jewel tones, shimmering silks, sharp tuxedos encased in garment bags. The house looked like it was swallowing elegance whole.
I picked up a single grape from the bunch and plopped it right into my mouth. Its juice trickled down my chin and as I was about to wipe it off, my mind trailed off to a dangerous and sinful memory. A memory so dark, haunting yet deliciously inviting.
Being on my knees, looking up at Christian with his length stuffed in my mouth.
The memory of him fisting his hand in my hair as he hit home, shoving himself all the way to the back of my throat. His pleased groan when tears fell down my cheeks.
I smiled when I recalled him kneeling just to wipe the tears off my face when he came…..
The grape suddenly didn't taste as sweet.
"Madame?" Matteo pulled me out of my haze.
I blinked, the world snapping back into place. The tight coil forming low in my stomach loosened slightly, though it left behind a lingering warmth that embarrassed me.
"Your dress has been picked and laid on your bed. I would suggest getting ready as the party commences in an hour!" He offered a polite smile at the end, though his eyes lingered just a second too long, probably noticing the flush on my cheeks.
"Picked? Who did?" I was confused but I had a hunch about who picked it up for me.
"Your friend did!"
I sighed knowing the dress wasn't something I'd pick on my own. Nella was all about body positivity so she had no problem showing off a bit of skin… or more.
I won't make myself out to be a saint, yes I did too — but not like Nella.
Three ladies in neatly tied high ponytails came before us. Their ponytails were pulled so tight they looked like they could snap back like rubber bands. I could practically see the future headache waiting patiently for them. One of them carried a huge bag that looked heavy enough to contain secrets.
"Ah! Just in time!" Matteo clapped and turned from them to me. "These ladies will assist you in getting ready. Be it makeup or hair and…" he seemed to be at crossroads with his tongue, "And whatever it is women do when getting ready!"
Oh, poor Matteo! He hurried away as we giggled behind him.
I took the ladies upstairs and out of common sense, I offered them to sit on the bed.
"Actually… you're the one that should sit!" The short one said. She had chubby cheeks and a very pretty face. Her forehead was so big you could use it as a mirror — smooth and glowing under the soft bedroom light.
"Oh!" I mouthed, suddenly aware that I had no idea how these things usually went.
I pulled the chair to the dresser mirror and sat down. The mirror reflected a very normal version of me — bare face, slightly wind-tangled hair, lips dry from the grapes. I looked… plain.
The ladies walked up to me.
"Do you have any makeup?"
"Uh… yes!" I said and opened a drawer. I reached for the small eyeshadow palette — the one I barely used — a lip gloss, mascara, and a nude lipstick that I applied maybe once every two months.
I placed them on the dresser like they were treasures.
"Is that all?" The tall, model-like one asked. She had a striking resemblance to Lady Gaga. Exquisite.
I nodded.
"Uh-uh!" The dark-haired girl finally spoke and when she did, I stared at her with curiosity.
"We can't do nothin' with those!"
Her accent was so hood, African-American. But she was Italian.
I kept staring at her in the mirror, trying to process the voice that didn't match the setting.
"What? You been staring at me for a minute! Wassup?"
The shock in me just tripled.
God, we done found us another one.
"Must be because of the accent, Riley!" Chubby cheeks spoke.
Riley rolled her eyes and opened the bag.
And that bag… it was like watching a magician pull scarves out of a hat.
Palettes stacked on palettes. Brushes of every size. Powders, primers, sprays. Lipsticks in shades I didn't even know existed — deep wines, burnt oranges, glossy reds, matte browns. It looked professional. Intimidating.
"Wow, that is a lot of makeup!" I honestly had never seen that much makeup in one place. My little drawer suddenly felt like a child's toy box.
"So how do we go about this?" Lady Gaga 2.0 asked.
"Since she's wearing a black dress, we should go with something like a plum color!"
"No, I disagree with you Isabella. Since she's wearing black, let's go with something bold. A smoking smokey eye would do!" Riley suggested.
"Co-sign!" Chubby cheeks supported.
I sat there quietly while they debated my face like it was a canvas at an art auction.
Without further delays, they got to working.
Cold primer touched my skin first — smooth, almost slippery. Then brushes swept across my cheeks in soft strokes. Powder dusted over my nose. Fingers gently tilted my chin up, turned my face left, right. My eyes closed on command.
I tried to peek but Riley tapped my forehead lightly. "Uh-uh. Let us cook."
Cook.
Like my face was a recipe.
I had no idea what they were doing half the time. Something dark was brushed onto my eyelids. Then darker. Then blended. Then blended again. My lashes were pulled upward and something cold and sticky dragged along them. I flinched once when a pencil traced dangerously close to my waterline.
"Relax," Isabella murmured.
After what seemed like a long time, they were finally done.
When I looked in the mirror, my jaw dropped.
My mouth hung open.
Never in my life had I looked this seductively gorgeous, this bold and commanding. My eyes were really smoked up — deep charcoal fading into shadowed plum at the edges. My lashes looked fuller, longer, dramatic. My lips had a darker outline with an even heavier and deeper burgundy color that made them look sinful.
I loved it.
My locks were done in a messily neat updo — strands deliberately falling around my face, softening the intensity. Elegant but effortless.
Damn. I looked fine.
"Definitely going to be the most beautiful face down there!" Chubby cheeks giggled like a toddler.
My beautiful face was such a sight I was about to tear up. Riley noticed it immediately.
"Don't you dare! If you ruin our makeup with those tears… I will drown you in barrel filled with four years old wine!" She threatened.
I flinched. Just visualizing the scenario made my tears retreat immediately.
"There!" She smiled. "Our job is done here!"
They began packing their makeup back into the bag.
"I'm so grateful for this, I really appreciate it. Thank you so much!"
Before any of them could reply, a very beautiful melody floated up from downstairs. The violinist was pouring his heart into the strings. The music swelled through the hallway, romantic and rich, vibrating softly through the walls.
"You better get ready, the guests are arriving!"
With that, they exited the room.
I picked up the dress from my bed.
It was a backless silk dress. The fabric shimmered under the light, smooth like water between my fingers. As if that was enough, it had a high slit, reaching up to the thigh. The silk felt cool against my skin as I slipped it on, clinging to my curves without mercy.
Regardless, it was nice.
A black choker was placed on it.
I sighed and put it on.
The woman staring back at me in the mirror didn't look unsure about makeup anymore.
She looked dangerous.
The living room had been cleared of its ordinary life and reborn into something decadent. Crystal chandeliers poured molten gold over polished floors. The air carried perfume layered over aged oak, imported cologne, and beneath it all — power. Old power. The kind that did not shout, but owned.
Champagne flutes shimmered in manicured hands. Diamonds caught light like silent applause. Every face was concealed behind a masquerade mask, anonymity only amplifying status.
And I wore mine too.
From the top of the staircase, I paused.
Below me: money. Influence. Dangerous alliances disguised as laughter.
Then I stepped forward.
The first click of my heel echoed — soft, deliberate.
It was subtle at first. A single head turned. Then another. Conversations thinned mid-sentence. A man stopped laughing before the joke ended. A woman's glass hovered halfway to her lips.
By the third step, the room had shifted.
By the fifth, it was mine.
As I descended the staircase, the silence thickened. Not complete silence — no. But the kind filled with restrained awe. Whispers pressed against silk sleeves. Eyes traveled — not crudely, but carefully. Studying. Measuring. Memorizing.
I froze halfway down.
It felt as if invisible hands held me there. Their stares glued my feet to marble. I stood still, a living sculpture carved in silk and confidence.
YOU'RE AN ALPHA FEMALE. YOU COMMAND. AND EVERYONE BOWS.
My conscience did not whisper. It declared.
I inhaled slowly.
Chin lifted. Shoulders back. Spine straight.
I continued.
The dress embraced my curves unapologetically, sculpting rather than covering. The silk clung as though afraid to lose its privilege of touching my skin. With every step, it shifted like liquid loyalty. The slit revealed just enough movement of thigh to make restraint a conscious effort for those watching.
Murmurs followed me like perfume. I did not acknowledge them.
I let them look.
Let them wonder.
Let them compare.
On the far end of the living room, plush seating framed the dance floor where bodies swayed beneath masked mystery. Some guests surrendered to music; others retreated to velvet chairs to observe like quiet predators.
I chose my seat carefully — positioned to see and be seen.
A glass of wine found my fingers. The stem cool against warm skin. I took a slow sip.
"I knew only you could make a room hold its breath."
I nearly choked.
Nella.
I hadn't seen her approach. She appeared before me as though conjured by envy itself.
"You look… wow," she breathed, genuine disbelief softening her tone.
I arched a brow beneath my mask. "What? You never thought I could look this beautiful?"
She rolled her eyes, but her gaze betrayed admiration. She wore the same design — sculpted silk — though hers shimmered in emerald green. The color deepened her complexion, made her look expensive in a different way. Where I was flame, she was forest.
"You look gorgeous, Nella. Really gorgeous." I reached out, patting her cheek affectionately.
She brushed my hand away immediately. "Stop that."
I laughed softly. She hated when I did that — said it made her feel like a pet. But I loved her too much to resist teasing her.
She groaned as I refused to withdraw my hand immediately.
"I'm going to mingle with my fellow Italians," she announced with a conspiratorial wink.
And just like that, she disappeared — swallowed whole by silk, masks, and ambition.