Page 43 of Forbidden Bride (Forbidden 1)
KARINA
My mother has selectedten wedding gowns, none of which suit me in the slightest.
I’ve selected only one, and it’s perfect for me. It’s been placed to the back of the pile, and I’ll be lucky if I even get a chance to try it on. Knowing my mom, I won’t.
After my secret call with Marco earlier, I got ready without interruption. The guard was still looming out in the hallway after I’d finished dressing and putting my hair in a bun, but he didn’t say anything about his missing cellphone. What if they search my room for it? My uncle puts trackers on everything. I can only hope if there was one on the guard’s phone that the water disabled it. Although I don’t know if it matters if I do get caught—the wedding is only a few days away and my fate is sealed. Whatever punishment my uncle might dish out is worth having had one last call with Marco.
“Karina?”
My mother thrusts a corset at me and presses it against my torso. “What do you think? This would give the illusion of curves, at least.”
I roll my eyes, but before I have a chance to say anything, she changes her mind and tosses the garment at the attendant.
“Let’s do this one first,” she says, grabbing the skirt of one of the poofier dresses hanging from the portable rack. “Go, go. Try it on.”
The attendant gives me a small smile and follows me into the lavish dressing room, where she hangs the gown up on the hook. She undoes the side zipper as I undress, and then holds it up while I step into it. The gown is a glowy silver-white with a narrow, low-cut neckline that plunges almost to my navel. Sheer fabric covers the opening for a sexy but modest look. The skirt is straight and unadorned. The long sleeves are made of the same sheer fabric as the center front piece, and edged in glittery trim. It’s a beautiful dress, but not at all to my taste.
After zipping me up, the attendant fluffs the skirt and fiddles with the fit before arranging me in front of the mirror.
“It’s very pretty,” she says.
“It’s not me at all,” I tell her.
She smiles with understanding in her eyes. “You have lots of options.”
I sigh.
My mother is delighted when I walk out and step up onto the circular platform surrounded by mirrors. She hops up from her chair and walks around me, nodding happily.
“Now, if we just get you a push-up bra or those sticky cups to give you some bosom, and maybe a crinoline underneath to puff out the skirt and make your waist look smaller…”
She fusses with the fit, too, but much more aggressively than the attendant did, all while sighing in disappointment every few seconds. I get it. She wishes I was more classically feminine looking. Bigger boobs, tinier waist, more padding in the hip and the rear. An hourglass like her. I already know my appearance isn’t in line with the glitter and perfection of most high-society wives, especially those in the “business” like my family. I’m plain in comparison.
Completely average.
“Let’s try something else,” she snaps while nearly pushing me off the platform.
I try on two more, and by the time my mother selects the fourth option, I’m exhausted. My mouth is dry and I’ve no energy to speak up for myself or even form a real opinion. I’ll only be shot down, so there’s no point anyway.
The attendant places a simple pearl and crystal tiara on my head and smiles. “Lovely.”
I smile back. “Oh gosh, how did you know?”
I’d glanced at this tiara a time or two while my mother was pulling me along. It’s simple yet elegant and would go perfectly with the kind of Regency style of wedding dress I’ve always dreamed about. Empire waist, ivory cream satin, lace edging. And this little tiara.
“I saw you looking at it. You had ‘the look’ in your eyes.” She winks. “Anyway, it doesn’t fit any of these dresses quite right, but I thought you might like to try it on.”
My throat tightens. “Thank you.”
It’s not just the dream dress that I’ve imagined, either. It was my groom, too: someone who would be in love with me, not with the power I could bring—power for him alone, of course. None for me.
I let out a sigh of frustration. The bodice of the dress I’m currently wearing is covered in small white satin bows, each with a crystal in the center. Similar bows are dotted all over the skirt, with pale pink satin ribbons draped between them like bunting. It looks like something a ten-year-old would wish for while watching Cinderella. Ick.
“Oh, that isn’t at all what I thought it would be. Go take it off and try the next one.” My mother waves a hand for me to skip the podium and return to the dressing room. “And get rid of that thing on your head. This isn’t the Miss America pageant. I don’t want to see it again.”
Pressing my lips together in a hard line, I nod. Meanwhile, my soul is packing up and hightailing it out of my body. I’m about to turn around when I hear a familiar voice say,
“She’s going to try on this one.”
Pietro. Shit. My heart stutters as I turn around slowly, the blood draining from my face. Pietro walks toward us with a very full gown draped over his arms.
“What are you doing here?” my mother gasps. “It’s bad luck for the groom to see the dress before the wedding!”
He locks eyes with me, his expression chilly, before he looks over the dress I’m wearing and frowns. I can’t help but wonder if his distaste is aimed at the dress or at me.
“I don’t believe in those silly superstitions. And why would I worry about luck, when I make my own? Besides, it’s good for Karina to know my tastes and preferences before we’re married, that way she can be sure to choose clothes that will please me.”
The attendant steps back. I’d love to know what she’s thinking. That’s he’s an asshole? Toxic masculinity runs strong in this one? She’s feeling sorry for me, I’m sure of that.
“Put her in this,” he tells the attendant, passing her the dress he’s holding. “I want her hair down. And put some lipstick on her. This isn’t a funeral, Karina.”
Oh, but to me it is. Biting back my retort, I force my stride to be as dignified as possible as I walk back to the dressing room. Avoiding the mirror while I get dressed in the gown Pietro picked out, I focus on my breathing and try to quell the familiar panic growing in my gut.
The attendant zips me up. “Here we go. What do you think?”
She encourages me to look in the mirror, but I hesitate. The dress is terribly heavy and I didn’t need to put it on to know that it’s an impractically frothy concoction of layers and bling.
But I do look, and immediately regret it.
The strapless, heart-shaped bodice is tight against my torso while the skirt is an explosion of layer upon hideous layer of tulle and silk. The hem of each layer is edged with Swarovski crystals—Pietro’s favorite—that flash rainbow colors when I move. The skirts are so full that they rise up around the waist of the bodice, and no matter how I press them down, they just pop back up again.
If anyone’s died by suffocation from a wedding dress, it was probably in one of these.
Holding my emotions in check, I stand dutifully while the attendant fiddles with my hair, and then hands me a tube of red gloss to put on my lips.
“Let’s get this over with,” I say blandly.
And then find that I can barely move. The dress is so heavy, the weight of the skirt feels as if it will pull the bodice straight down to my hips. The attendant keeps fluffing while I walk and supports me as I step up on the pedestal. My body heats under the lights, the layers creating an airtight bubble of hot satin and silk.
Pietro makes a slow circle around me, nodding in satisfaction. “This is the one. We’re done here.”
“I’ll look like the cake.” My tone is flat.
