Page 12 of Scream (Duchess & Devils #1)

Sabrina.

By the time I get downstairs in the morning, Maksim is already having breakfast with Mama and Derek. I don't know if I should be relieved or annoyed that he's gotten on with them so well, but I don't let it bother me.

"There you are, darling," Mama smiles my way, putting her teacup to her lips.

I slide my fingers through my hair, pushing it back only for it to curtain forward again and fall around my shoulders.

"Morning Mum, Derek." I greet, putting food on my plate and thanking Poppy - the new girl who gets a little too close to Maksim, her heavy breast on his arm when she serves him more coffee.

A ripple of jealousy flares through me, but I remind myself, that he's a gorgeous man. Women will continuously throw themselves at him, and this is nothing but an agreement. I shouldn't care. I won't care. I should get used to it.

It does surprise me, though, when Maksim shifts his shoulder down to get her to stop touching him, but she only leans a little farther, following his movements.

Christ, all she needs is a breathy giggle and to call me Sabrina-chan to look like a soft-core porn anime character or written by a man in a mystery novel.

I roll my eyes and inwardly sigh when Mum peeps at what she's doing and her eyes flick to mine as if she's saying, 'Aren't you going to put a stop to this?'

"Poppy, if you could please get your breasts off my betrothed's arm, go back to your quarters, pack up your things, and leave for the remainder of your life, I would kindly appreciate that," I say calmly, placing a napkin in my lap.

Poppy snaps up, breasts breasting softly in her quick jerk up. Her blue eyes go wide, and thin, pink lips part in bewilderment, dainty hand flying to her large bosom. "Miss I would never- "

"Except you would and you did," Maksim interrupts her, lifting his fork full of eggs to his mouth, nonchalantly taking a bite.

"Really Poppy. It's one thing to lie to your employers, but it’s another to disrespect me so blatantly in front of my family." I chastise, invoking the old Sabrina.

"I agree," Mum says, eyes bouncing between me and Maksim. "Pack your things, Miss Avondale, you're dismissed. I'll forward your wages through the postal service." She turns her attention back to me as Poppy runs away, sobbing.

“Really Mum, you had to hire Sex-on-Stilts? I’m surprised you didn’t hand her fishnet stockings and a leather skirt.”

Maksim chokes on his eggs to which I ignore fully while serving myself some.

"She came highly recommended by the temp agency. All of her prior employers wrote high praise in their letters of recommendation.”

I deadpan, lift my fist to my face and make a jerking motion towards my mouth in a very vulgar fashion. “I’m sure they did.”

Maksim gulps down his coffee, choking once again. Derek’s goes flying out of his mouth like spittle, landing on the table. His face goes red, and he makes a guttural ‘ hmmrph’ noise into his napkin. I can hear Parker chuckling behind me.

“Must you be so crass in front of company before breakfast?” she scolds, lifting the kettle, delicately adding more tea to her porcelain cup as I add sugar to my coffee.

I lift my mug, peering at her over the cup. “Funny you should ask-“

Mama clears her throat, obviously tired of my antics and telling me to shut the fuck up. “Now that that's been settled and taken care of, I made an appointment at Auclair's."

It’s my turn to choke on my coffee. Auclair's is not only by appointment only, but they make the most beautiful dresses that cost upwards of fifty thousand pounds just for said appointment. It’s where I always thought I'd get my fairytale dress made as a child.

"Mum, that's not necessary. I'll just get something by Vera Wang. Off the rack."

Mum gasps as if I've just told her I have a malignant brain tumor and closes her hand into a fist. "You're being silly. Now, I've made all the proper arrangements. You won't be leaving until this evening, so we shall go and see Madam Auclair, and we shall have you the finest dress made this year."

"But, Maks, he'll be alone, I-I-" I don't want a handmade dress to be wasted on this bloody farce of a marriage.

A ring is one thing. A dress? A dress I wanted to hand down for generations?

It's... it makes me feel sick. I mean, I knew the only thing I'd be good to my father for was being a prized mare, but even then - no.

Before everything, I'd at least hoped to like my fiancé.Or rather, be able to at least have a full conversation with him that isn’t just grunts and sighs. Broody cockwomble.

This marriage isn't worthy of a dress made by Auclair’s since I'll be burning it as soon as I take it off, unlike this heavy ring I have to wear daily. I peek down at it, pink and beautiful and sleek and brilliant - a constant reminder of all the things I once was.

I should've asked for a brown diamond. That's how I feel inside. Brown. Murky. Dirty.

I should have worn my gloves so I wouldn’t have to look at it, but it would have seemed odd to wear them around Mum's house. It isn't dirty.

Just me. I'm the tainted one.

Maksim leans back in his chair and cocks his head to the side to look at me.

He looks so unbothered, so bored. "I have work things to take care of.

I'll be fine here, Sabrina. Go with your mother.

Have fun." He says, just as his phone begins to ring.

He stands, throwing his napkin beside his empty plate on the table.

"Breakfast was wonderful, thank you." He shakes his phone at us, proving the Very Important Man has to take a Very Important Call, leaving me to fend for myself. Parker would never.

"Excuse me," he grunts, answering the call in Russian.

Mama hums in delight in Maksim’s direction and waves him off with a twinge of her finger before turning to me.

“Honestly, Sabrina, ‘ off the rack ,’ I raised you better than that,” My mother tiffs before taking a long sip of her tea, still shaking her head as if it’s the most ridiculous thing she’s heard all year.

A hostess opens the glass door for us to enter Auclair's. The building is old and gorgeous, and the inside is even more spectacular, and the only thing I can think, is I shouldn't be here. Madam Auclair's time will be wasted.

"Sabrina!" She chimes, rounding the corner of the glass case that holds bridal trinkets and vintage veils.

Her French accent is rich and her voice sultry.

She's a petite woman with soft features, brown eyes, brown hair, and tiny, black-rimmed glasses that are so vintage, they remind me of the early 90s, but they suit the woman.

She is nothing less than fabulous. When she takes in my…

new appearance, her eyes widen just a bit as her hands come together, and a small clap rings out around the studio.

At least twenty unfinished dresses hang from retail rods, varying from champagne to cream to ivory to blinding white.

I won’t be wearing those.

"You have grown so much! You were my height when I saw you last. Oh, still so beautiful." Her kindness warms my heart, and I'm surprised she remembers me from when she made Mama's dress ten years ago.

"Madame Auclair, c'est tellement agréable de te revoir." It's so nice to see you again.

She leans and air-kisses one cheek and then the other, such a wonderful contrast to people always trying to shake my hand or give hugs. It's tiring having to dodge them all.

Her attentions turn toward my mother who begins to speak fluidly in rapid-fire French.

I make my way to the racks holding bridal gowns fit for royalty.

They're all unfinished, all waiting to become Auclair's new masterpiece, to find a home where they'll be put on a body that loves them, to be oohed and ahhed and then stuffed in a box for twenty or so years and be worn by the next generation.

Except there won’t be a next generation.

My hand stops on one that's white with light pink mesh that's supposed to blend with your skin tone, making it seem as though the lace clings to your body like paint until it flares around your feet.

My heart sinks, my belly turns, and the urge to sob locks itself in my throat.

I smooth my hand over my belly and swallow down every emotion I can manage.

Still, the weight seems to climb and settle between my shoulder blades, diving deep and lodging itself into me like tar.

Just another thing adding to the tumor that is me.

A champagne dress.

Not white.

"Oh darling, that will look fantastic." My mother drawls.

Oh, apparently, I said all of that out loud.

"A corset." I rasp. "Ball gown that sparkles. But I want a second dress for the reception so I can dance with my best friend. Mermaid." While this isn't a fairytale, it is my wedding. "Beaded crystals." I'm spewing now, nothing but word vomiting.

Madam Auclair holds up a finger and begins nodding, "Oui, cher.

" She quickly goes to the racks of fabric and tulle, her assistant behind her, jotting down whatever she's saying on a sketch pad in quick succession.

Except she isn't jotting anything down at all; she's drawing a rough draft of my dress.

"With your figure, this will be the dress of the century.

Oh, I haven't been this excited in a very long time.

" She gives orders in French to her assistant, whose name I still haven't gotten, but soon I'm on a stepstool in front of the mirrors, getting my measurements taken while my mother watches in awe.

I hold my breath, thinking of anything, anything but the way this woman's tiny, nimble fingers touch me. Lifting my arms when I'm told, taking the smallest breaths when she wraps the measuring tape around my breasts.

When was the last time I got properly measured for a bra?

"And for the wedding night?" Madam Auclair waggles her eyebrows at me, and my mother smirks.