Page 50 of Sadistic

I'm getting choices in dresses but not in husbands.

Still, I appreciate the gesture more than I can express.

Twenty minutes later, we're loading garment bags into a black Escalade that probably costs more than my college tuition.

The dresses alone take up most of the cargo space—each one protected by individual bags with Greer's fashion house logo embroidered in gold.

The thread probably costs more than my weekly grocery budget.

"How long have you been designing?" Dalla asks, helping me navigate the train of the current gown into the vehicle without dragging it through the parking lot oil stains.

"About thirty-five years," Greer says, supervising our movements with an expert eye. "Started before I married Aleksandr. It was my passion, you know?"

I think I do know.

The need for independence even within the cage of marriage.

"You designed all of these?" Mom touches one of the bags cautiously, like it might dissolve under her fingers.

"It's what I do." Greer's smile turns warm. "Though I'll admit, I may have gotten carried away. It's not every day my son gets married."

"Carried away?" Rhiannon snorts. "Mum, you've been sketching wedding dresses since Doran and Da told you about the engagement. I caught you designing at 3 AM. Her last design was just a couple of days ago."

My jaw drops. "A couple of days ago?"

"She does whatever she wants when she feels inspired, and apparently, the dresses she already designed weren’t good enough. She had to add one more," Rhiannon says.

The drive through Tallahassee feels like crossing between worlds.

From the desolate mixed area where the clubhouse sits to the gleaming downtown where the hotel towers over everything like a glass and steel middle finger to poverty.

I've driven past it a hundred times but never been inside.

Never belonged inside, I guess.

"You're gripping my hand really tight," Dalla comments quietly beside me.

I loosen my hold, I hadn't realized I was clinging to her. "Nervous?"

"Terrified," I admit, watching the city transform around us.

Even the air seems different here, cleaner somehow, like money has its own atmosphere.

"Good. That means you're paying attention." She squeezes back. "But hey, free champagne. And you know I'm not leaving your side."

"Promise?"

"Promise. Someone has to keep you from running and screaming into the night."

"That's still an option?"

"Always. I've got the car keys."

The hotel lobby is all marble and crystal, soft music and softer lighting.

Everything gleams like it's been personally polished by angels.

People in designer clothes move through the space like they own it, and maybe they do.

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