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"You look like a bloody expensive disco ball," Rhiannon observes.

"Rhiannon!" Greer scolds, but she's trying not to laugh.

"What? She does! Stunning disco ball, but still."

The one that follows is beautiful but feels like wearing someone else's skin.

It's too princessy, too sweet, too much like what people expect a bride to be rather than who I am.

By the following dress, the champagne is working its magic, and we're all laughing more than critiquing.

Even Dalla has relaxed, curled on the couch next to our mom, both of them giggly from the alcohol.

"That one makes your arse look amazing." Rhiannon giggles.

"Rhiannon!" Greer scolds, but she's smiling into her champagne.

"What? It does! Doran's going to swallow his tongue."

"Can we not talk about what Doran's going to do?" I plead, face burning.

The last thing I need is to think about my future husband's reaction to my ass.

"Fair enough," Rhiannon concedes. "But seriously, your arse looks great."

"It really does," Dalla agrees, surprising everyone, including herself. "What? I can appreciate good tailoring."

"Since when do you know about tailoring?" I ask.

"Since I started secretly taking design classes last semester," she admits, then covers her mouth. "Shit. That was supposed to be a secret."

"You're taking design classes?" Mom sits up straighter. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I'm supposed to be pre-med. Future doctor, remember?"

"But you hate blood," I point out.

"Yeah, well, turns out that's kind of important for doctors." She takes another sip of champagne. "But I love fashion. Always have."

"We should talk," Greer says, studying my sister with new interest. "I have an internship program."

"Really?"

"Really. But first"—she turns back to me—"we need to find Revna's dress."

Mom's been quiet most of the evening, overwhelmed by the luxury, but she speaks up now. "You look beautiful, baby. In all of them."

"Thanks, Mom." I study my reflection. The dress is stunning, but it's not... right. "I think maybe?—"

"Wait." Greer disappears into the wall of garment bags, returning with one I haven't seen yet.

It's covered in an extra layer of protection, like it's somehow more precious than the others. "Try this one."

The dress is different from the others.

Simpler in some ways, more complex in others.

The silk feels like water in my hands, the color not quite white, not quite ivory, but something in between that seems to shift in the light like moonbeams on snow.

"I designed this one last week," Greer admits as she helps me into it. "After I met you. I couldn't sleep, and I just... started sketching."

The dress settles over me like it was made for my body—which, I realize, it probably was.

She must have gotten my measurements from Doran, another tiny invasion of privacy I'm choosing not to think about.

It's elegant without being too much, sexy without being obvious.

The neckline shows just enough, the waist nips in perfectly, and the way it moves...

"Oh," Dalla says softly.

"Yeah," Rhiannon agrees. "That's the one."

I stare at my reflection, seeing a stranger, or maybe seeing myself for the first time.

This isn't Revna the college student or Revna the biker's daughter.

This is Revna Volkolv.

The name sits in my mind like a damn prophecy.

The thought should terrify me.

Instead, it feels... inevitable.

"You're crying," Mom says, and I realize she's right.

I touch my cheek, fingers coming away wet.

"Happy tears," I assure her, though I'm not entirely sure that's true.

They might be tears of grief for the life I'm leaving behind, or tears of fear for the life I'm starting.

"It's perfect," I whisper.

"You're perfect in it," Greer corrects. "There's a difference."

She circles me, making tiny adjustments, pinning here and there.

"The hem needs to come up half an inch. The bodice taken in just slightly. But essentially, this is it."

"How did you know?" I ask. "How did you create exactly what I didn't even know I wanted?"

"Because I see you," she says simply. "Not who you're trying to be or who others expect you to be. Just you."

A knock on the door interrupts the moment.

Room service with more champagne and enough food to feed an army.

Tiny sandwiches, fruit that looks too perfect to be real, chocolates that probably cost more per piece than I spend on lunch.

We take a break, me still in the dress because none of us wants the moment to end.

I'm careful as I sit, hyper aware of every movement, terrified of spilling something on what's probably a fifty-thousand-dollar dress, or more.

"Can I ask you something?" I ask Greer as we settle on the plush couches.

"Anything."

"Were you scared? When you married Aleksandr?"

She considers this, sipping her champagne with the kind of elegance I'll never achieve. "Terrified, but I loved him. I was so young, like you are now. Raised in America, and suddenly discovering my true heritage and marrying into the Bratva."

"But you did it anyway."

"I did." Her smile turns soft, lost in memory. "Best decision I ever made, though it took me years to realize it."

"How did you know?"

"I didn't. Not at first." She looks at Rhiannon, something passing between them. "But Aleksandr... he let me be myself. Encouraged my career, supported my dreams. The violence, the danger—that was just in the background compared to finding someone who saw me as an equal."

"Doran's letting me finish law school," I offer, still surprised by that.

"Because he's smart enough to know that caging a bird doesn't make it sing." Greer reaches over, squeezes my hand.

Her rings are cold against my skin, heavy with the weight of wealth and promises. "My son is many things—controlling, obsessive, probably too protective for his own good. But stupid isn't one of them."

"He's also weirdly romantic," Rhiannon adds, pulling her feet up under her. "Remember when he tried to buy that girl a horse because she mentioned liking them once?"

"He was sixteen." Greer laughs. "And she was terrified of him after that."

"A horse?" Dalla asks, surprised.

"A thoroughbred, wait, no," Rhiannon confirms. "Arabian, I think. Cost more than most people's houses. Dad had to return it and explain that normal people don't express interest via that big of a grand gesture."

"What happened to the girl?" I ask, oddly curious about this piece of Doran's history.

"She transferred schools," Rhiannon says. "Probably still in therapy."

"She wasn't right for him anyway," Greer adds. "Too fragile. Doran needs someone who can match him, challenge him. Stand up to him."

"Someone who threatens to sue his sister for harassment?" Rhiannon grins.

"I didn't actually mean to threaten?—"

"You did. It was beautiful. I've never seen someone shut me down so fast."

"She gets that from Doran." Greer sighs. "The thoroughness."

"What about you?" I ask Rhiannon. "Any wedding plans in your future?"

"God no," she says immediately. "I've seen what this life does to relationships. I'm good with my degrees and my trust fund, thanks."

"Liar," Greer says fondly. "You just haven't met anyone who can handle you yet. And honestly, you know, at some point we’ll find someone perfect for you. The same way, I’m certain, Revna will be for Doran."

"Mum, I'm too much awesome for one person." But there's something in her eyes, a flicker of loneliness that she covers with her humor.

We talk and drink and laugh, and for a while, I forget this is an arranged marriage, that two men are dead, that in two weeks I'll belong to a man who's had me under surveillance for five years.

Right now, I'm just a girl trying on wedding dresses with women who are either my family, or on their way to becoming it.

"We should probably get you out of that dress," Greer says eventually, noticing the way I'm starting to sway slightly. "Before?—"

Rhiannon's phone buzzes.

She checks it and grins. "Incoming. Brother bear is in the elevator."

"What?" I jump up, champagne making me wobble.

Dalla keeps me from falling over and making a fool of myself.

"Doran's here," she clarifies. "Probably checking that we haven't corrupted you or convinced you to run."

Run? Like I have the option to anyways.

"The dress!" Greer's already moving, professional again. "Come on Revna, we’d best get you out of it before he comes rushing in!"

What follows is the world's fastest dress removal.

Dalla practically throws my regular clothes at me while Greer carefully hangs the dress, and Rhiannon laughs at how panicked we all are.

Mom tries to help, but mostly gets in the way, champagne making her as clumsy as me.

"You know he's seen women in wedding dresses before," Rhiannon points out, filming our chaos on her phone.

"Not this woman," Greer says firmly. "Bad luck."

"Since when are we superstitious?"

"Since I spent so much time making the dress, and I'm not risking anything."

I'm buttoning my jeans when the door opens.

No knock—of course he doesn't knock in his mother's suite.

Ownership is in his DNA.

Doran looks tired.

His suit is still perfect, but there's a tension in his shoulders, a tightness around his eyes that speaks of whatever dark business he's been handling while we played dress-up.

The contrast between our evening and his is stark—we've been drinking champagne and laughing while he's been doing God knows what.

His gaze finds me immediately, something flickering in those icy eyes of his.

Relief? Surprise?

It's gone before I can identify it, replaced by that careful control he wears like armor.

"Ladies," he says formally.

"Doran," Rhiannon mimics his tone. "Come to check we haven't stolen your bride?"

"The thought crossed my mind." But he's looking at me as he says it, taking in my flushed cheeks, the slight dishevelment from our quick change. "How was the fitting?"

"Your mother is a genius," I say honestly, the champagne making me more open than usual.

"So I've been told." He kisses Greer's cheek, and she whispers something in his ear that makes his jaw tighten slightly.

I wonder what it's about.

Something bad, no doubt.

"We should go," Mom says, clearly uncomfortable with Doran being around.

I can’t blame her, she tried so hard to keep this from happening, and I know she’s having a hard time accepting this.

"I'll drive you," Greer offers quickly.

And suddenly everyone's leaving.

Hugs and promises to text, Greer assuring me the dress will be perfect, Rhiannon making me promise to send proof of life texts.

The suite that felt so full moments ago empties until it's just Doran and me.

The silence stretches between us, not uncomfortable, but still a little weird.

"Have you eaten?" he asks finally.

"Room service." I gesture at the demolished spread. "Your mother ordered enough for an army."

"She tends to do that." He loosens his tie slightly, the first sign that he's not completely composed. "I could use a drink."

He pauses, and I realize he's actually asking, not commanding. "Join me? The bar downstairs is quiet this time of night."

It's not an order.

It's an invitation.

And somehow that makes it harder to refuse.

"Okay," I say, surprising both of us.

Something flashes in his eyes—surprise that I agreed? Satisfaction?

He holds out his hand, and after a moment, I take it.