Page 11

CHAPTER FIVE

Revna

The "fitting room" is actually just a storage room someone cleared out an hour ago, with a large window that looks out onto the street in front of the club.

It still smells like fried food and oil, and I'm pretty sure that's a carburetor in the corner they forgot to move.

The single bulb hanging from the ceiling casts harsh shadows that make everyone look tired, which maybe we are.

"Arms up," Greer commands, and I obey, letting her slip dress number three over my head.

The fabric whispers against my skin, expensive and delicate in a way that feels foreign.

It's beautiful—everything she's brought is beautiful—but trying on wedding dresses in a glorified closet while bikes rumble outside isn't exactly the fairy tale experience little girls dream about.

Not that I ever dreamed about weddings.

I have always been too practical for that, even as a kid.

Too aware of what marriage meant in our world—alliances and protection, duty and sacrifice.

"This one has pockets," Rhiannon announces from her perch on a stack of boxes.

She's been providing commentary for the last hour, turning what could be an awkward situation into something almost fun. "Because even brides need somewhere to put their phone."

"Or a knife," Dalla mutters from the doorway, still playing protective sister.

She hasn't moved from her position since we started, watching everyone like they might suddenly attack me.

"Why would she need a knife at her wedding?" Mom asks, eyes wide.

My mother's been trying to keep things light, but the stress shows in the tight lines around her mouth, the way she keeps touching her throat like she's checking for a pulse.

"You clearly haven't been to enough mafia weddings," Rhiannon says cheerfully. "Last year, someone's ex showed up with a machete. It was very dramatic."

"Wasn’t that one of the Romanian Clans' weddings?" I remember. "The ex was his former business partner. Turned out he had been sleeping with the girl up until the night before the wedding. An arranged one too, I think."

"See? Drama." Rhiannon grins. "Though I doubt anyone would dare cause problems at your wedding. Doran would literally dismember them."

The casual way she says it—like her brother's capacity for violence is just another family trait, like green eyes or dark hair—sends a shiver down my spine.

The door bursts open without any warning.

"Oh shit!" Gorm, a prospect—barely eighteen, still growing into his cut—freezes at the sight of me in a ten-thousand-dollar dress.

His face goes from pale to red in seconds. "Fuck! Sorry! I was just—Oskar said—fuck!"

He backs out so fast he trips over his own feet, the door slamming behind him hard enough to rattle the walls.

We all stare at each other for a moment before Rhiannon breaks into laughter. "And that's why you always knock."

"That's the third time," Greer says, though she's fighting a smile. She's been patient—more patient than someone of her status should be with our makeshift arrangements. "Perhaps we should consider relocating."

"I'm so sorry," Mom starts, wringing her hands. "I told them we needed this room, but the prospects, they don't always listen, and?—"

Greer waves her off with perfectly manicured fingers. "Nonsense. It's not your fault."

She eyes the cramped space, the water-stained ceiling, the door that doesn't quite close properly.

A spider scurries across the floor, and I swear I see her eye twitch. "I have a suite in town. Full living room, great lighting, and most importantly—a door that locks."

"We couldn't impose—" I begin, even though the thought of getting out of this cramped space sounds like heaven.

"You're going to be my daughter-in-law in less than two weeks," Greer says firmly. "It's not an imposition, it's a family bonding experience."

The word sits heavy between us.

Family.

Like it's that simple.

Like I can just slide from one world to another without leaving pieces of myself behind.

"Plus," Rhiannon adds, already gathering garment bags, "the hotel has room service. And champagne. Lots of champagne. We're going to need it if we're going through"—she counts—"nine more dresses."

"Twelve total?" Dalla speaks for the first time in twenty minutes. "You brought twelve wedding dresses?"

"I wanted options," Greer says simply. "Every bride deserves choices."

The irony isn't lost on any of us.

I'm getting choices in dresses but not in husbands.

Still, I appreciate the gesture more than I can express.

Twenty minutes later, we're loading garment bags into a black Escalade that probably costs more than my college tuition.

The dresses alone take up most of the cargo space—each one protected by individual bags with Greer's fashion house logo embroidered in gold.

The thread probably costs more than my weekly grocery budget.

"How long have you been designing?" Dalla asks, helping me navigate the train of the current gown into the vehicle without dragging it through the parking lot oil stains.

"About thirty-five years," Greer says, supervising our movements with an expert eye. "Started before I married Aleksandr. It was my passion, you know?"

I think I do know.

The need for independence even within the cage of marriage.

"You designed all of these?" Mom touches one of the bags cautiously, like it might dissolve under her fingers.

"It's what I do." Greer's smile turns warm. "Though I'll admit, I may have gotten carried away. It's not every day my son gets married."

"Carried away?" Rhiannon snorts. "Mum, you've been sketching wedding dresses since Doran and Da told you about the engagement. I caught you designing at 3 AM. Her last design was just a couple of days ago."

My jaw drops. "A couple of days ago?"

"She does whatever she wants when she feels inspired, and apparently, the dresses she already designed weren’t good enough. She had to add one more," Rhiannon says.

The drive through Tallahassee feels like crossing between worlds.

From the desolate mixed area where the clubhouse sits to the gleaming downtown where the hotel towers over everything like a glass and steel middle finger to poverty.

I've driven past it a hundred times but never been inside.

Never belonged inside, I guess.

"You're gripping my hand really tight," Dalla comments quietly beside me.

I loosen my hold, I hadn't realized I was clinging to her. "Nervous?"

"Terrified," I admit, watching the city transform around us.

Even the air seems different here, cleaner somehow, like money has its own atmosphere.

"Good. That means you're paying attention." She squeezes back. "But hey, free champagne. And you know I'm not leaving your side."

"Promise?"

"Promise. Someone has to keep you from running and screaming into the night."

"That's still an option?"

"Always. I've got the car keys."

The hotel lobby is all marble and crystal, soft music and softer lighting.

Everything gleams like it's been personally polished by angels.

People in designer clothes move through the space like they own it, and maybe they do.

A few recognize Greer, their eyes tracking our group.

I hear whispers—"Volkolv," "the designer," "is that the bride?"

"Mrs. Volkolv," the concierge greets her with the kind of deference reserved for people who matter.

He's younger than I expected, handsome in that carefully groomed way. "Shall I send refreshments to your suite?"

"Champagne," Greer says without hesitation. "The Cristal, I think. And perhaps some light food. We'll be having a bit of a party."

"Right away, ma'am. Will either of the Mr. Volkolvs be joining you?"

"Not if they know what's good for them," Rhiannon interjects. "Bad luck and all that for the groom."

The concierge smiles like he's in on the joke.

Maybe he is.

The elevator is bigger than my bedroom, all mirrors and gold accents.

I catch my reflection from every angle—still in the last wedding dress I was trying on—a short number that would be really cute for an after-party.

I look like a kid playing dress-up.

My face is flushed, my hair escaping from the quick, messy bun I threw it in this morning.

Next to Greer and Rhiannon's polished perfection, I look exactly like what I am—out of place.

"Stop that," Rhiannon says, reading my expression. "You look gorgeous."

"I look out of place."

"You look like a bride," Greer corrects, adjusting my posture with gentle hands. "My soon-to-be daughter-in-law. Stand straighter—you're going to be a Volkolv."

The penthouse suite destroys any concept I had of hotel rooms.

It's an apartment in the sky—living room bigger than my entire place, full kitchen with appliances I can't even name, floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing Tallahassee spread out below like a glittering map.

You could fit twenty people in here easily and still have room to dance.

Dalla breathes, spinning in a slow circle. "Holy shit."

"Holy shit indeed," Greer agrees, already directing where to hang the dresses. "Rhiannon, call down for more champagne. We're going to need it."

"On it." Rhiannon's already at the suite phone, ordering like she was born to it, which I guess she is.

What follows is nothing like the awkward changing room at the clubhouse.

Greer transforms the space into a proper fitting area, like she's done this a thousand times.

Full-length mirrors appear from somewhere, positioned to make me see every angle.

The dresses are arranged by style—ball gowns here, mermaids there, fit-and-flares in between.

Music plays softly in the background, something classical that probably has a name I should know.

"Now," she says, handing me a glass of champagne that costs more than my textbooks, "let's find you the perfect dress."

The next dress is a mermaid style that makes me look like I'm trying too hard.

The crystals catch the light in a way that screams, "look at me," when all I want to do is hide.

"Too much," Greer agrees before I can voice it. "Next."

This one has so many crystals I could probably be seen from space.

NASA could use me as a beacon.