Page 96 of Blood Debt
The maid steps aside, gesturing me forward.
A tall, slender woman in black looks up from a table cluttered with swatches and sketches. A tape measure hangs around her neck like a piece of jewelry, and her smile is equal parts polite and assessing.
“Ah, you must be the bride,” she says, her Italian accent warm but precise. She steps closer, her eyes scanning me. “I’m Vescari, your designer. Cristofano described you, but….” Her smile deepens. “He did not do you justice.”
I offer a small, practiced smile. “It’s…a pleasure.” The words feel careful in my mouth.
She circles me slowly, her gaze moving from my shoulders to my shoes, calculating without even touching the tape. “We’ll find something perfect for your frame,” she says with quiet certainty. “May I?” She gestures toward the nearest mannequin.
I nod.
She guides me toward a gown with delicate lace sleeves and beadwork that glitters under the light. “This one—for your skin tone? Perhaps. But ivory—” She points toward another, sleeker cut with a faint sheen, her voice lifting slightly. “—ivory will make you unforgettable.”
Her words wash over me, and for a dangerous moment, I let myself drift—imagining what it might be like if this were real. If I were just a woman about to marry a man she loved. If I didn’t have a target on my back and a plan to destroy my groom.
I blink hard and pull myself back. It’s not real. None of this is real.
“I’m fine with anything,” I say lightly.
Vescari pauses, surprised by my detachment, but recovers with a smile. “Then perhaps…this one.” She touches the first dress in the row, a gown of soft ivory silk with delicate beadwork across the bodice.
“I’ll try it,” I answer.
Two maids step forward, their hands careful but efficient as they help me change. Layers of fabric settle over my skin like whispers. The way the skirt pools around me—it’s impossible not to feel…different. Almost like I belong here.
Signora Vescari gasps softly. “Perfetta.”
The sound of clapping breaks the spell.
I turn toward it, my stomach sinking even before I see her, Alessandra Morelli walking toward me with eyes gleaming.
“You look…beautiful,” she says, voice honeyed but heavy with insult.
I lower my gaze, letting my shoulders curve in practiced humility. “Grazie, Signora,” I murmur, keeping my tone soft, obedient—just a maid grateful for a rare kindness.
Her lips twitch in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. She steps closer, her perfume a sharp contrast to the faint scent of pressed linen in the room. “Enjoy it while it lasts,” she whispers, her breath warm against my ear. “Cristofano will be mine in due time.”
Something hot and sharp unfurls in my chest. Before I can stop myself, I straighten, meeting her gaze head-on, and let asmall, dangerous smile curve my lips. “Chasing after a man who doesn’t want you?” I say, voice quiet but cutting.
Her eyes flare. “He left me because you turned his head,” she snaps, her composure fracturing.
“I highly doubt that,” I reply, the words slipping out like a challenge.
The slap comes fast, the crack echoing off the walls. My cheek stings, heat blooming across my skin, but I refuse to flinch.
“What is happening here?”
The thunder in Cristofano’s voice makes us both turn. He stands in the doorway, Matteo at his shoulder, his steel-gray eyes dark with fury.
He closes the distance in long, decisive strides, his gaze sweeping over my face before locking on the red mark blooming on my cheek. “Are you all right?” he asks, softer now.
I nod once, but he’s already turning toward Alessandra. “Get her out of here.”
“I can walk,” she says, lifting her chin. “Happy married life.”
Her heels click away, the sound fading down the corridor as Matteo follows her out.
Cristofano’s attention returns to me, and his expression softens. “You look…pretty,” he says, almost as if the word isn’t enough, but it’s all he can manage in the moment.
