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It would just be me.

I stepped into it without speaking, the weight of it light, but somehow incredibly meaningful. The attendant zipped itcarefully, smoothing it over my back, then left without a word. I stood there in front of the three-way mirror, bare feet on the cool marble floor, heart beating loud in my ears.

Then I strode out into the waiting room like a woman walking into a war with her chin lifted and her lips painted for battle.

Riley gasped when I stepped out. “Oh, myGod.”

Amy just stood slowly. Her smile was small, but I saw it. Felt it.

“No veil,” she said. “Please, no veil. That’s not who you are. You’re Sloane Kingsley and you don’t need to hide behind anything.”

“Agreed,” Riley said, circling me like she was inspecting body armor for signs of weakness. “This is it. This issoit.”

Amy stepped closer and reached for the small ribbon at my waist, adjusting the tie gently. “You look like you already know how the story ends,” she said softly.

“I don’t,” I said. “But I know who I’m walking into it with.”

Riley grinned. “Damn right you do.”

We stood there for a moment longer, all three of us looking at the girl in the mirror.

“I’ll take this one,” I said.

The girl in the mirror smiled back at me.

When our car pulled up to the wedding venue, I couldn’t help but gasp at the grand estate Nikolai had chosen for the wedding. Itwas made of gorgeous roughhewn stone and tinted glass and it was three stories tall.

The bridal suite was on the top floor. It had pale marble floors and light blue walls with gold leaf crown molding. A sitting area with soft cream-colored furniture and velvet cushions. Long mirrors leaned against one wall, and a small white chaise had been placed at the center, draped with a robe and a note in Nikolai’s handwriting:Soon.

I stood in the center of the room in nothing but the lingerie Amy and Riley had picked out for me with the kind of gleeful mischief that warmed my heart.

The lingerie was sheer white lace, delicate but highly structured. The bodice was boned, hugging my waist in all the right ways, and the high-cut panties barely covered anything at all. The robe I slipped into was silk, ivory, long, and weightless. I ran my hands down the fabric, smoothing it against my hips.

The makeup team arrived shortly after, two women with cases full of brushes and palettes and gold-plated tweezers. They greeted me with practiced calm and the gentle touches of women who had done a hundred weddings and still knew how to make each bride feel like the center of the universe.

They started with my skin—serum, primer, foundation blended so perfectly it didn’t look like I was wearing anything at all. My lips were painted a soft rose; not red, not pink, but something in between. My cheeks glowed. My eyes were lined just enough to command attention. I barely recognized myself, and I didn’t hate it.

My hair was swept up into a loose, elegant chignon, strands softly curled, secured with hidden pins, a few wisps left to framemy face like I’d just woken up and looked perfect. Riley approved with a single nod. Amy offered a quiet smile and handed me a glass of champagne.

We didn’t talk about politics, the press, or what it meant to marry into a family like Nikolai’s. We just sat together and laughed a little. We talked about shoes and the kind of lace that made you feel expensive. The best lipstick that didn’t smudge when you were being kissed just hard enough.

I felt calm. Beautiful. Very much like a woman about to step into a different life.

The dress came last.

It glided over my curves like water. The neckline dipped down to my cleavage, but not too low. The train brushed the floor, following behind me like a shadow. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I didn’t see the mayor’s daughter.

I saw a bride.

There was a sharp knock at the door. I didn’t know how a knock could sound professional, but it did. I turned, expecting one of the planners or the coordinator for the processional cue.

Instead, a woman stepped in I didn’t recognize.

Late twenties, pretty, but fairly plain. Brown hair in a tight bun. A headset in her ear and a name badge I didn’t catch. She held a narrow white florist box in her hands and wore a smile that had clearly been rehearsed.

“Miss Kingsley?” she asked, just slightly breathless. “Sorry to interrupt. There’s a small issue with the groom’s boutonniere.”

I blinked. “What kind of issue?”