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I slip it on, the silk cool against my heated skin. It fits perfectly—of course it does. Zeke probably had someone take my measurements while I slept. The thought makes me shiver despite the warmth of the room.

The dress hugs every curve, the skirt falling in elegant waves to the floor. I look like a bride from a magazine spread, all polished and perfect. But my eyes tell a different story. They’re wild, filled with the panic of a trapped animal.

My hands smooth down the bodice of my dress, feeling the structure beneath the delicate fabric. Like this whole charade—the dress is beautiful on the surface, but constructed of steel and necessity underneath. A pretty cage is still a cage.

The bedroom door opens with a slight swishing sound, followed by a gasp.

“You look beautiful,” Lydia gushes. “Like a princess.”

Olivia shakes her head. “Not a princess. A queen.” There’s a firmness to her voice that causes the hairs on the back of my neck to stand at attention.A mafia queen. Oh, God.

I don’t want to be a mafia queen. I want to be Detective Landry, the woman who fights for justice, who protects the innocent.

The dress whispers against the floor as I pace, each step a reminder of how far I’ve strayed from my own path. This isn’t me. The Eve I know wouldn’t be caught dead in something so overtly feminine, so deliberately enchanting. She wears practical suits and sensible shoes, ready to chase down leads or comfort victims at a moment’s notice.

But that Eve seems very far away right now.

Behind Lydia and Olivia is an entourage of stylists carrying countless cases of makeup. I groan, already tired of this kind of treatment. The hairstylist nearly did me in.

“Sit.” Lydia orders. I glare at her but do as she says. I’ve come this far. And I know I’m not turning back. I’ve committed to this marriage if for no other reason but to keep Leo safe.

Keep telling yourself that, lady.

The makeup artist introduces herself, but I’m only half paying attention. The minutes tick by and it feels like this process is never going to end. She’s taking longer than the hairstylist took. Is my face that bad?

“You need to hold still,” the makeup artist scolds as I take another sip of gin. Her name is Samantha—or Sarah? I can’t remember. The faces around me blur together in a haze of cosmetics and concern.

“I am holding still,” I protest, though the words come out slightly slurred. The gin has finally started doing its job, softening the sharp edges of reality.

Lydia exchanges a worried glance with Olivia. “Eve, honey, maybe you should slow down?”

I laugh, the sound harsh and brittle. “Trust me, you’d be drinking too if you were in my position.”

The makeup artist—definitely Samantha—sighs and adjusts my chin with gentle fingers. “Close your eyes, please. Let me finish your eyeshadow.”

I comply, but my free hand still clutches the martini glass like a lifeline. The cool rim presses against my lower lip, a constant reminder that I can take another sip whenever I need it.

“Eve.” Olivia’s voice is soft but firm. “How many have you had?”

I crack one eye open, earning another exasperated sigh from Samantha. “Not enough.”

“Sweetie—” Lydia starts.

“Don’t.” The word comes out sharper than I intended. “Just … don’t. I need this, okay? I need tonotfeel everything so fucking much right now.”

The makeup brush trembles against my eyelid. Or maybe I’m the one trembling. It’s getting harder to tell the difference.

“I think you’ve had enough,” Lydia says, reaching for my glass.

I pull it away, sloshing gin onto the pristine white carpet. It’s a miracle it didn’t spill on my dress. “I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough.” My voice cracks on the last word, betraying the fear I’m trying so desperately to drown. “When I can walk down that aisle without feeling like I’m marching to my own funeral, then maybe I’ll have had enough.”

The room falls silent except for the exaggerated sigh from the makeup artist because I can’t seem to keep my eyes closed and the clink of ice in my glass. My friends share another look—the kind that speaks volumes without saying a word. But they don’t try to take my drink again, and right now, that’s all that matters.

“Eve.” Lydia’s voice is gentle, too gentle. “Talk to us. What’s really going on?”

I catch my reflection in the mirror again, barely recognizing the woman staring back. The makeup artist has transformed me into someone elegant, refined. Someone worthy of being Ezekiel King’s wife. But underneath all this polish, I’m still just damaged goods. A woman who couldn’t give her first husband what he wanted most.

“He’s not Ryan,” Olivia says softly, as if reading my thoughts. “Zeke … he’s different.”