“Tomorrow,” I say, grabbing her hand. She lets me slide the ring into place. Several big diamonds glitter in a little pod around the white-gold band. Karah picked it and promised it was nice. “You will be my wife tomorrow.”
I’m not asking. This isn’t a question. This is happening whether she wants it or not.
“Casso. This is too soon. What about—Danil? Manuel? There are a million reasons to wait.”
“No waiting.” I release her roughly and stand. There, I did it, I got down on one knee and proposed. Well, I didn’t propose—I commanded—but that’s the best she’s going to get from me. I’m tired of doing things halfway and sick of trying to be gentle and accommodating. She will be my wife. I will have her.
She looks at the ring on her finger. Her hair glimmers as she shifts and slips past me, moving into the room. She stares and stares and reaches for the dress bag, unzipping it halfway. She makes a strange, strangled sound in her throat.
“It won’t fit,” she says, shaking her head, and she sounds like that matters.
“A tailor’s coming in ten minutes. I’m paying her absurd amounts of money to get that dress finished by tomorrow morning. If you give her trouble, I will personally come in here and force you to do exactly what she says. Do you understand? Spare us both the embarrassment.”
She shakes her head but doesn’t argue. I hate that I’m doing this. I hate that I’m pushing. But I can’t sit around waiting for the day that she finally accepts her fate and comes along with a smile on her face. So long as she isn’t screaming and trying to kill me, that’ll have to be good enough.
“Tomorrow,” she says and wipes the tears from her face. “I wish I could wear black. I feel like you’re burying me.”
“Don’t be dramatic. Play nice and this won’t be so bad. But I promise you, princess, whether you come along willingly or struggle, you will marry me.”
I turn and leave. No reason to make her suffer any longer. The tailor’s coming with her team of seamstresses and they’ll need as much time as they can get.
Because tomorrow, we’re having a wedding.
Chapter 9
Olivia
The dress fits.
I didn’t think it would. I said nothing when the seamstress and her assistants measured me, got me fitted, made their notes, asked their questions, and left again. I cried, but they didn’t seem surprised by that, like women that do this sort of work for rich and powerful men are used to seeing tears and hopelessness.
But I’m out of tears. I spent them all in my pillow last night, and now big bags hang beneath my eyes. I used to imagine my wedding day when I was younger, back before the war forced me back to Mexico: lots of activity, friends and family all over, people to help dress me and do my hair and my makeup. Bridesmaids, champagne, laughter, joy. Lots of white and lots of flowers and lots of people to share in my perfect day. Instead, it’s only me.
I try my best to look good, for myself at least. I doubt there will be pictures, and this isn’t a day I’ll want to remember, but I try anyway. I make myself as beautiful as I can, my hair glossy and lustrous, my makeup simple and understated but classy, and when I’m finished I put on the dress.
It fits and I hate it so much.
The dress itself is fine. Old-fashioned, but in a good way. Sleeves, lace, tulle, a classic look, and it suits me beautifully. No, I hate it because of what it stands for.
My doom.
At ten in the morning, there’s a knock at the main door. “Come in.”
Karah steps inside. She’s wearing a simple navy dress that accentuates her figure and I’m surprised at how pretty she looks, although I shouldn’t be. Karah’s a Bruno and they’re all gorgeous. “Oh, wow.” She stares at me for a second, her eyes wide. “That’s amazing.”
“It’s okay.” I look at myself with a long sigh. “Not how I pictured it, but it’s nice. I know your mother wore it.”
“Momma would’ve been proud.”
My laugh is bitter and harsh. “Doubtful. Think she would’ve liked to see a girl her family fought against wearing her dress? This was a happy memory for her, but it’s not for me. I’m tainting this thing.”
Karah’s face is all sympathy and I hate her for it a little. I don’t need sympathy—I need a fast car, lots of cash, and ten minutes to escape.
“I know this is hard.” She joins me in the mirror and smiles sadly. “But you do look amazing.”
“Who’s here? Who gets to witness this travesty?”
Karah tilts her head. “The family. Nico, Antonio, Elise, Fynn, Gavino. Casso, of course. And your father.”