Page 1 of Kill for a Kiss

Prologue

Elle

The wedding reception is a show of sparkling elegance. My gaze drifts over the scenery surrounding me. Lanterns dangle, their golden glow spilling over tables dressed in ivory linens. Dark red roses overflow from delicate vases, their petals velvety. An orchestra performs, their musical strings weaving through the quiet murmur of guests exchanging pleasantries, sipping wine, and nibbling on hors d’oeuvres passed by gliding waiters.

Everything is curated to perfection, effortless and extravagant, as though the sunset itself had been rehearsed. I take it all in, feeling more like an observer than a guest, like I’m standing just outside the untouchable, waiting for it to vanish the moment I blink. And when I do blink, I forget what I was thinking about.Was there something on my mind?

I can’t remember, but it doesn’t matter. I let the thought drift away, the way all my thoughts seem to lately.

The guests glitter in their couture, so polished that they don’t seem real. Luckily, the gracious host, Clo, lent me something that fits the illusion. Otherwise, I’d be exposed, too out of place.

The sun dips lower, casting its ethereal glow over the vineyard behind the mansion. I hear the faintest crash of waves under this cliffside. But the orchestra plays louder, the guests’ voices more pronounced than the ocean.

It’s the perfect place for a wedding. A perfect day for one too. August 8th. I’ve been tracking dates ever since the fog rolled in around my memories. But today feels different, more significant. It’s the eighth day of the eighth month. An auspicious choice for a wedding.

With Filipino and Korean blood—though I can’t remember which side is which—I kind of recall a thing or two about superstitions. Particularly, the numbers. Eight is good luck, since its shape loops into infinity, they say. Four is bad luck, something to do with death. But here, in the States, thirteen is unlucky. That’s what I know, off the top of my head. Four and thirteen should be avoided.

But aside from that, my memory’s been hazy, as if I’ve been drifting in and out of a lucid dream. I can’t even remember how long it’s been like this. At this point, it feels like forever. In the back of my mind, I feel memories hiding, ones that simply don’t want to crawl out. I wonder why, yet nothing comes to mind.

The days have been spilling into each other like a wine glass that’s refilled so often, it may as well be a waterfall. Maybe that metaphor comes to mind since I’m watching a waiter pour wine into a guest’s glass. He asks for it to be filled to the brim, and the waiter’s smile falters, nervous as he obliges. I watch the red wine dribble down the curve of the glass, a little spilling over before touching the guest’s fingers.

For some reason, this mundane thing stands out to me.

“Elle!”

My name slices through the haze. I turn slowly and see the bride, Kaye, waving at me, a blur of pink silk and sparkling joy charging across the manicured lawn. She’s luminous, all teeth and laughter, the embodiment of bridal glow.

I smile. Sometimes the gesture feels automatic to me, sometimes too practiced. But with Kaye, my lips relax naturally.

“You came,” she says, slipping her arm through mine. “I was starting to think I’d have to fake-laugh my way through this alone.”

She talks fast and easy, like champagne bubbles popping in the air. And while she talks, I let my gaze trace the details of her look. The soft curve of her lips glossed in rose, the subtle shimmer along her cheekbones, and the seams I stitched by hand to cinch the dress is just enough to fit her like a second skin.

I’m her stylist tonight. My job is to make her look like a dream. And I’d say she does, but she could do that all on her own. As the sun sets, the light makes her beauty gleam. But her words catch me. “You’re the only normal one here.”

Normal…if only she knew. If onlyIdid.

The ocean breeze teases the ends of Kaye’s hair, curling them into loose waves. “It’s curling, isn’t it?” she sighs.

“Only a little,” I say.

“A little curl is a catastrophe,” she quips.

I don’t quite understand why she’s so determined to tame what’s already beautiful, but it’s not my place to argue. She’s the bride, my client, and the one everyone’s here to look at, so I reach for my bag. But before I can find the spray, Clo comes into view.

“There you are,” she says, gliding toward us. “Guests are beginning to wonder if the bride’s fled.”

“You know me,” Kaye says brightly. “Practically a flight risk in a fancy dress.”

Clo gives a fond look that doesn’t quite settle. They speak a little longer, but their voices flicker at the edges of my thoughts. I should stay grounded, be present, but their conversation is muffled.

The wind picks up again. Kaye’s hair keeps curling. I dig through my bag and find the small bottle of hairspray. It’s meant for Clo’s curls, but it’ll do. Kaye should be photo-ready, but now that I think of it…has anyone taken a photo tonight?

“Elle?” Clo’s voice is gentle but edged. When I glance up, her smile falters a little. “You’ve been working all day, haven’t you? Do you need a moment?”

I blink at her.All day?

Kaye seizes the moment, tugging my wrist. “Actually, I need to steal Elle to fix my hair. She’ssogood at drawing out the pretty parts of people.”