Page 51 of Sadistic

A few recognize Greer, their eyes tracking our group.

I hear whispers—"Volkolv," "the designer," "is that the bride?"

"Mrs. Volkolv," the concierge greets her with the kind of deference reserved for people who matter.

He's younger than I expected, handsome in that carefully groomed way. "Shall I send refreshments to your suite?"

"Champagne," Greer says without hesitation. "The Cristal, I think. And perhaps some light food. We'll be having a bit of a party."

"Right away, ma'am. Will either of the Mr. Volkolvs be joining you?"

"Not if they know what's good for them," Rhiannon interjects. "Bad luck and all that for the groom."

The concierge smiles like he's in on the joke.

Maybe he is.

The elevator is bigger than my bedroom, all mirrors and gold accents.

I catch my reflection from every angle—still in the last wedding dress I was trying on—a short number that would be really cute for an after-party.

I look like a kid playing dress-up.

My face is flushed, my hair escaping from the quick, messy bun I threw it in this morning.

Next to Greer and Rhiannon's polished perfection, I look exactly like what I am—out of place.

"Stop that," Rhiannon says, reading my expression. "You look gorgeous."

"I look out of place."

"You look like a bride," Greer corrects, adjusting my posture with gentle hands. "My soon-to-be daughter-in-law. Stand straighter—you're going to be a Volkolv."

The penthouse suite destroys any concept I had of hotel rooms.

It's an apartment in the sky—living room bigger than my entire place, full kitchen with appliances I can't even name, floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing Tallahassee spread out below like a glittering map.

You could fit twenty people in here easily and still have room to dance.

Dalla breathes, spinning in a slow circle. "Holy shit."

"Holy shit indeed," Greer agrees, already directing where to hang the dresses. "Rhiannon, call down for more champagne. We're going to need it."

"On it." Rhiannon's already at the suite phone, ordering like she was born to it, which I guess she is.

What follows is nothing like the awkward changing room at the clubhouse.

Greer transforms the space into a proper fitting area, like she's done this a thousand times.

Full-length mirrors appear from somewhere, positioned to make me see every angle.

The dresses are arranged by style—ball gowns here, mermaids there, fit-and-flares in between.

Music plays softly in the background, something classical that probably has a name I should know.

"Now," she says, handing me a glass of champagne that costs more than my textbooks, "let's find you the perfect dress."

The next dress is a mermaid style that makes me look like I'm trying too hard.

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