Page 35 of Claiming Genevieve

“I love it already.” I pour myself a second mimosa, looking around as Maisie brings me a questionnaire to fill out to help me decide on my ‘bridal style’. Since I won’t be dancing anytime soon—if ever again—I might as well enjoy the ability to have a second drink when I feel like it.

Once the questionnaire is filled out, Maisie takes me into the pink-and-white dressing room, complete with a little fringed velvet stool and a large mirror, and starts bringing me armfuls of dresses. I try on style after style—everything from a Cinderella-like ballgown made from heavy Mikado satin to a spaghetti-strap slinky dress made from thin, papery silk that could be a nightgown, and nothing really feelsright.

“Do you have any other ideas?” I ask, and Maisie frowns.

“I’ll be right back,” she says, taking an armful of gowns with her, and disappears.

She comes back with three more dresses, citing them as less ‘traditional.” I’d said on my questionnaire that my style always trends towards casual, simple elegance, but all of the dresses that fit that style felt boring to me. Neither Dahlia nor Evelyn seemed particularly wowed by them either, and Evelyn’s opinion especially is one that I want. After all, I don’t know anyone who knows more about design or fashion than she does.

The three that Maisie brings in, though, immediately have promise.

The first, I’m unsure about. It’s a strapless ballgown style, with a fitted bodice made of smooth, heavy satin with visible boning, and a full skirt that has cascades of satin roses spilling down one side, pulled up to reveal a lace inset. For one thing, the lace inset is on the side that my cast is, so it’s very visible. For another, I feel like a cupcake—which is the first thing I say when I step out to let Evelyn and Dahlia see.

“You kind of look like a cupcake,” Dahlia agrees. “I’m not sure about that one.”

I retreat back into the dressing room, getting out of the dress as best I can. I’m already exhausted from trying to get in and out of the dresses with one leg in a cast, and I’m trying my best not to let it ruin the day. I almost trip over the voluminous hem, and bite my lip, blinking back tears.

My whole life, I’ve worked hard to be agile and graceful. I’ve put thousands of hours of work into it. And now I feel like a baby deer learning to walk.

I swallow hard, carefully stepping into the next gown that Maisie has for me—a silver strapless column dress that sparkles even under the dressing room lights. I can see bits of light glinting off the metallic thread that the entire dress is woven with, and it’s truly gorgeous—but it looks like a gown for a gala, not a wedding dress.

Which just leaves the last option that she brought in.

The moment she slips it off the hanger, I have a feeling that it’s the one. It’s another strapless ballgown, with a similar smooth, stiff bodice and a straight-across neckline, but the skirt is remarkably similar in theme to the dress I chose for the engagement party.

The entire skirt is made up of layer after layer of soft white feathers. That smooth, stiff bodice comes down further than most, skimming all the way down to my hips before spilling out into the cascades of feathers that flow down to the floor and pool out around me, forming a chapel-length train behind me. It gives me the illusion of having more curves than I actually do, the bodice molded to me as if poured on. The severity of it draws the eye to my neck and collarbones and shoulders, and the fluffy skirt hides my cast entirely. I can’t completely disguise my injury—I’ll have to have a crutch to get down the aisle—but at least the hideous cast won’t be visible.

When I step out, Evelyn gasps. Dahlia’s eyes go wide. And when Maisie brings me a pearl headband to slip into my hair, with a long, simple veil attached to it, I’m certain that it’s the one.

The price is staggering, but fortunately, I don’t have to worry about it. I swipe the card that Rowan gave me easily, wait for Maisie to take my measurements for the rush alterations to make sure the dress fits me perfectly, then the three of us head back out to the car, and to one of our favorite little cafés for an early lunch.

“Has Chris tried to get in touch with you at all?” Dahlia asks, once we’ve settled in with our drinks and a charcuterie board for an appetizer. “Or has he just moved on?”

“He’s sent me a lot of texts,” I admit, although I don’t want to let on exactly what those texts have been. The truth is that he’s been blowing up my phone since that night when Rory brought it back from the penthouse, and like that night, the texts and voicemails have ranged from him pleading with me just to talk, to calling me a bitch and telling me I’ll be sorry, before switching back to asking me to just listen to him and reconsider.

Dahlia frowns. “What kind of texts?” she asks, as if she can see the answer on my face. “Genevieve, if he’s threatening you, or making you uncomfortable?—”

“It’s fine,” I say quickly, because I know how that statement ends. “I don’t want Dimitri or Alek getting involved in this. I don’t wantanyonegetting involved in it, honestly. I just want it to end. I’m ignoring all his calls and texts, and he’ll get tired of trying eventually. I don’t know why he’s trying at all, honestly,” I add, reaching for a piece of Manchego cheese and dragging it through the small pool of honey at one end of the board. “He loved that I was a ballerina. I was like this living piece of art that he got to have on his arm and say he was dating. Now that I’m not that any longer, I don’t know what he gets out of a relationship with me. It’s not like we were in love.”

“Some men just want to be in control of when and how things end,” Evelyn says, folding up a piece of prosciutto and setting it on a cracker with blueberry goat cheese. “They don’t like being told when they’re going to lose something. I don’t know if it’s about feeling so much as it is about control.”

“Maybe you’re right.” I shrug. “But he’s not in control of this. And now I’m engaged to Rowan. He’s going to give up.” I repeat it, more firmly this time. “He’s just having a hard time hearing ‘no,’ like you said. But he’ll get tired of me giving him the cold shoulder. I think he was cheating on me anyway,” I add, and both Dahlia and Evelyn look at me in horror.

“And you didn’t care?” Dahlia exclaims.

I shrug. “I did, but mostly because that wasn’t the agreement we had. I was good—I stayed faithful and kept up my end of the deal. And I don’t think he did. So—” I give Dahlia and Evelyn a half-smile. “Good riddance, right? This will be better.”

“I’m still not convinced Rowan is a good choice for a husband,” Evelyn says. “But I trust your judgment.”

I wish I did,I can’t help but think as I reach for my glass of white wine. Ever since the night of the party, when I smelled that perfume coming off of Chris’s shirt, I’ve wondered if my judgment has been all wrong. That feeling has only worsened through the mess of events that have unfolded since then. But I’m locked in now.

I just have to hang on for the ride, whatever comes next.

—

That feelingof certainty that I just have to wait out Chris’s tantrums until he gets tired of trying to convince me vanishes the moment that we pull into the driveway of Dahlia’s house, and I see Chris’s black Jaguar parked out front. He’s leaning against the side of it, wearing a dark suit and sunglasses that he slips off as soon as he sees our town car pulling in.

“I’ll text Alek,” Dahlia says, catching sight of Chris. “Alek will send someone out to make him leave?—”

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