Page 10 of Mated to the Kingpin

At the threshold, I turn to Lizzy. “Try not to burn the estate down while I’m gone.”

Her smirk is wicked. “No promises, Alpha-boy.”

Claire doesn’t say anything. But she meets my gaze. Bold. Unafraid.

Maybe I did make the right choice after all. Because no matter what comes next, whether it’s Ronan’s betrayal or the full moon binding what’s already mine, Claire Douglass is no victim.

She’s a firestorm wrapped in silken skin, standing in the center of this hurricane I’ve helped build with claws and blood. And I intend to earn her, even if I have to drag every ghost, traitor, and goddamn challenger into the dirt behind me.

Chapter 7

Claire

They say a woman always remembers the dress she gets married in. I hate that they’re right. Because I’ll remember this one forever.

It’s wrapping me like a memory I didn’t know I’d been avoiding, a whisper of the girl I swore I left behind. Soft cream colored satin slips over my curves like moonlight poured into fabric. The fit is perfect, clinging where it should, floating over the rest like a breath I haven’t taken yet. The bodice is sheer in places, delicate wildflower embroidery twisting up over the illusion fabric like vines reaching for something just out of sight. Dewy seed pearls glisten at the throat and hips, an echo of a dream I stopped letting myself have years ago.

I look like a real bride–not someone dragged here by blackmail and threats from the man who shattered me before I even knew what love really was.

And yet the mirror, cruel thing that it is, reflects a version of me that looks…serene. As if I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life. I stare with numb curiosity, like she’s a stranger who borrowed my face and is playing pretend in lace and grief.

“God,” I murmur, venom-less. Because how can I possibly hate something that looks so right and feels so wrong? “I hate how good I look.”

“You look like you just stepped out of a dream,” Lizzy says, flopping into one of the cushioned chairs by the dressing table. She’s still rocking her combat boots under the dusky green dress Fiona found for her, and somehow she makes rebellion look regal. Her hair has been reluctantly tamed into curls that frame her face, but a few already bounce loose, defiant as ever. “A fever-dream, mind you. Like if a cursed forest spirit was also a runway model.”

Her grin is effortless, and I manage half of one.

I pivot slowly in front of the mirror, watching the skirt sway. It’s simple, sleek. But the way it moves with my body, the embroidery singing down the fabric—it’s stunning. The wildflowers at the hem bloom in pale blues and faded meadow pinks. So subtle that they blend in when I move just right.

I shouldn’t love it.

I shouldn’t love any of this.

But some stubborn, wounded part of me aches with the beauty of it. Because this dress doesn’t just fit me. It understands me.

“I know this wasn’t your choice,” Lizzy says in a softer voice, tapping her phone against her palm. “But if it had been, I mean really been... this is the dress, right? The one you dreamed about?”

I hesitate. And then, releasing a long breath, I nod.

I hadn’t told a soul about that sixteen-year-old version of me. The girl who saved wedding inspiration photos and imagined Liam lifting her veil like he’d look past every other future and choose her. Back then, I believed in forever and in the look he used to give me, even if it was only for seconds at a time.

That girl? She’s still here. Buried under hard-won independence and cynicism and scars I still trace in silence. But this dress? It’s her dreams made silk. And that feels like betrayal.

“To be honest,” Lizzy says after a moment, breaking the tension, “I was prepared to throw something when I saw it. I was hoping it’d be hideous. Sequins. Tulle. Maybe a rhinestone heart stuck above your ass. Something I could rage against. But this?” She gestures with one hand, overwhelmed. “This is a love letter. Every stitch.”

I go still. “What?” I ask carefully. My stomach tightens, caught between rising heat and a far-off kind of grief.

She shrugs. “I mean, I was assuming the O’Reilly Mafia Wedding Committee was going to pick some dress off a rack labeled “Classy but Obedient.” But this had to be picked out by someone who knows you.”

Before I can answer, a new voice cuts in from the doorway.

“It was,” says Fiona O’Reilly, her voice dipped in velvet sincerity with something flint-like underneath. “And he was adamant about the dress having wildflowers.”

Lizzy sits bolt upright. I turn slowly.

Liam’s mother stands just inside the room, composed and sharp in tailored navy slacks and a silk blouse. No pearls. No nonsense. Just a woman carved from quiet storms. She watches me like I’m a puzzle she already knows how to solve with patience and grace.

“What did you say?” I ask, the question scraped raw from my throat.

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