Page 5 of Untouchable Queen
“Yes,signore,” she says with a polite curtsy.
Lucian gives one final nod, then departs, closing the door snuggly behind him. My ears ring, my body going numb as I stare vacantly at the garment bags. In a matter of hours, Lucian Agosti has turned my world inside out—and I never even saw it coming.
“Do you know what style you would like your wedding dress to be,signorina?” Gabriella asks, turning her soft, wide brown eyes on me.
“Does it matter?” I ask emotionlessly, feeling the futility of my situation with full force. There’s no getting out of this. No way to back out now. Undoubtedly, Lucian has men stationed at all the exits to ensure I won’t try to leave, and as he said, I agreed to this in front of all his men, allmymen. Even Killian King’s Irishmen know what I agreed to do to protect my sister.
I can’t stop this train from rolling. It’s already left the station.
“I just thought…Most brides dream about their wedding day. I thought I could make yours as close to that image as possible,” Gabriella murmurs, color infusing her cheeks.
She’s young and sweet, and for a moment, I’m baffled that someone like her could work for a man like Lucian. Then again, money talks, and from the looks of things, he has plenty to ensure he gets the best help money can buy.
“Thank you, Gabriella. I guess…since it’s so last minute, just pick whichever one would be easiest to alter in time.”
She seems to know exactly which one that is and nods before turning to one of the slimmer garment bags and unzipping it.She pulls out a beautifully beaded strapless bodice dress. Made entirely out of tulle, I can see the ribbing through the pleated top, and the flowing layers of skirt cascade to the floor in a beautiful waterfall of gauzy fabric.
It’s simple, stunning, and with a plunging sweetheart neckline, it will be anything but modest. But I can see why it would be the easiest to alter. The bodice cinches in the back, which will make it adjustable, and the tulle skirt can simply be cut—for a one-day dress, she’ll have to hem the top layer at most. Any other rough edges will blend right in.
“If you’ll just put it on…” she suggests, looking almost apologetic, and I wonder if she understands the full dynamic of this situation.
How could she not?
No bride puts on their wedding dress hours before the ceremony if they’re eager to enjoy the occasion. Like she said, they have a vision, a daydream they come up with early in life and plan for years before the special day comes. Not me. I never intended to get married, and yet here I am.
I slip into the surprisingly comfortable gown and hold the beautiful beading against my breasts so Gabriella can tighten the corset ribbons. Then, as she gets to work pinning and cutting the skirt to the proper length, another woman enters to touch up my makeup.
Standing like a Barbie doll, I let them dress me up and do my hair. Gabriella slides a pair of white pearl-beaded pumps onto my feet. My auburn tresses have been curled and styled to cascade down my back with several locks drawn back from my face to give my veil a place to perch on the back of my head. When Gabriella puts me in front of the floor-length mirror just over an hour later, I’ve been completely transformed.
I hardly feel a thing.
Gabriella guides me from the room, and as soon as I step into the hallway, Lucian’s men flank me, “ushering” me to my wedding ceremony. I’m shocked to find that the compound has a beautiful chapel just off the main house—I don’t even have to walk outside to reach it.
“They’re ready for you,” says one of Lucian’s two men standing in front of the chapel’s high double doors. He presses his ear and murmurs something into a mouthpiece hidden in the lapel of his suit.
On the other side of the door, the hushed conversation dies down as the familiar notes of the “Wedding March” begin. Then the two guards standing at the entrance swing the doors wide.
I gasp at the number of people gathered in the chapel—it must be nearly a hundred of New York’s most elite families. People I mingled with over the years at galas and charity events. It would seem they’ve all forgiven—if not forgotten—the bloody massacre Lucian brought down on our heads at the last event my parents hosted. And now, they turn to watch me with teary eyes, their expressions full of that joyful pride guests can only feel for a blushing bride.
Do they really think I would ever marry Lucian Agosti of my own volition? Does no one see the cruel irony?
It feels like a horrible, ugly joke.
And at the end of the aisle, standing at the altar, is my soon-to-be husband. Don Lucian. My father’s killer. A man who has no right to look so handsome and charming in a black tux. Not when I know the black tar his heart is made of.
With each step, I’m more painfully aware of how alone I am. The father who would have walked me down the aisle is gone. I have no one who will stand up for me. No one to put an end to my misery. This is my fate, and I would suffer it a hundred times over to know that Natasha is safe. Still, I’m ashamed I played so foolishly into Lucian’s hands.
I take the steps up to the altar one at a time, passing off a bouquet of flowers I hadn’t even realized had been placed in my hands, and then Lucian is taking my icy fingers in his surprisingly warm hands. His gaze is molten, his eyes filled with an anticipation that sends a shiver down my spine.
“You look beautiful, Tatiana,” he murmurs as I turn to face him. “I love the dress you chose.”
His eyes fleetingly drop to the generous amount of cleavage my gown creates with my full breasts, and my cheeks flame with embarrassment. I hope he doesn’t think I picked the dress because of how revealing it is. The last thing I intended was to encourage his greedy gaze. Then, for the first time, I wonder if he only gave me options that would show off my body. My natural curves do a good enough job of flaunting my assets on their own. I don’t need a dress to make them more obvious.
But this is Lucian’s fantasy—not mine—and my skin burns to think of how slutty the other dresses might have been that I didn’t even bother taking out of the garment bags.
I honestly don’t even know how I’m allowed to participate in the Catholic ceremony with this much skin showing, but that’s what the wedding turns out to be. It’s all in Latin, and while I’ve been to Mass before, I don’t have it in me to listen to the rambling priest ramble today. I’m still wavering between shock and fury, preferring the numbness that helps me momentarily block out the reality of my situation rather than the seething anger that makes me want to cry.
I say my vows in a haze and exchange rings, hardly taking note of the glittering band Lucian slides onto my finger, then the world snaps into focus all at once as Lucian’s arm snakes around my waist.
