Page 27 of Dario DeLuca

“I could so use my phone right about now?” Mia says with agitation in her voice.

We make eye contact, and she glares at me. Suddenly, I remember that pictures are her thing. She’s an influencer, is what Rafael told me, and that is how she’s made a name for herself—sharing her life with her followers and leveraging that reach for the advocacy work she does with her father. But that is also how the asshole I shot found her.

Mia doesn’t bother to wait for a response, nor do I care to give her one. I’ll say it as often as I need to for it to sink in: her protection is the only thing that matters. She continues the ritual of transformation, each gown a new skin to be tried and shed.

She emerges repeatedly from behind the curtain, a vision in lace and chiffon. But it's not until the black dress envelops her form that my pulse quickens. Form-fitting, off-the-shoulder, and ruched with long flowing sleeves—it's perfection.

"That's the one.” The words escape my lips unbidden.

Surprise registers on Mia's face through the mirror, a fleeting vulnerability. We're caught in a daze, hunger lingering between us. It’s the kind that devours and is never sated. I shift in my seat, adjusting my crotch to keep myself presentable in this very polished establishment. Mia wets her lips, the gesture only damaging my already heightened senses.

The clerk's return is untimely, breaking the spell.

"How are we doing?" she inquires, oblivious to the storm she's interrupted.

"Um. Great. We'll take this one," Mia answers, her fingers tracing the contours of the fabric clinging to her like a glove.

"That looks amazing on you. Why don't you change out of it, and I'll get you rung up," the clerk suggests, businesslike.

"Perfect," Mia responds, her gaze still tethered to mine.

"Can I ask when the party is? We can steam and press the dress for the big day if you'd like," the clerk offers, her tone hopeful.

"In two days, and no, thank you. We'll handle the cleaning," I reply.

"Of course. I'll meet you at the front when you're ready."

In the wake of her departure, Mia slips behind the veil that separates us. But the curtain doesn't close fully, and I’m met with a sliver of skin and vulnerability not meant for my eyes but impossible to ignore.

Her skin glows against the backdrop of discarded gowns. She's a fusion of softness and resilience, contradictions melding into harmony.

I watch, the voyeuristic indulgence binding me to her with invisible threads. I see her — truly see her — and in that moment, she eclipses every other woman who has graced my bed or haunted my thoughts.

Her body tells a story of dreams, and I want to read every word to trace the narrative hidden in the curve of her waist and the tilt of her hips.

The curtain yanks open, and Mia's eyes lock onto mine. Accusation and awareness hang between us.

The silence stretches, a taut line waiting to snap. She stands there, the curtain drawn closed now, her hands skimming over the fabric of the dress in her hand.

"Can we just get this wedding over with?" The words tumble from Mia's lips. "Then, you know, get divorced."

Deadpan, I say, “It’s cute you think divorce is an option. Once a DeLuca, always a DeLuca.”

TWELVE

MIA

I sitin front of the mirror, brush in hand, the bristles gently caressing my cheek as I apply the finishing touches to my makeup. Full glam with batwing eyeliner, ombre lipstick in nude tones, complementing shadows, glitter liner, and mink lashes.

I made sure to add all of my beauty products to my list, so I have them ready to use when needed. My hair is styled in a blowout with soft body waves, creating an elegant look.

With the final spritz of my setting spray, I stare at my reflection. She looks back with the same worry and concern I show. It’s hard to believe I’m the prize in this dark fairytale.

When I thought about my wedding as a kid, I never thought it would be anything like this. I never thought I would be a bargaining tool my father could use on a whim.

Climbing quickly out of the mental rabbit hole I find myself in, I fasten the rhinestone straps of my Louboutin heels as the need to feel every bit of the part I must play tonight surges through me.

There is a soft knock at the door, and a voice calls out hesitantly, "Miss Mia, Mr. DeLuca insists we hurry."

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