Chapter 6

Little puffs of white vanished into the cold Chicago air as my breath coated her lips. Not even my big coat could shield me from the stinging winter cold that seemed to permeate my own bones. Perhaps then it was more than just the temperature. Perhaps the cold I experienced exceeded mere sensation.

Crawling over the snow-covered streets, the sound of new snowfall under my boots gave my depressing thoughts a consistent cadence. Walking with me were my mother and sisters; our modest procession was completed by the always visible security. Only another family trip. Indeed.

My stomach turned as we walked toward the opulent bridal store, its windows bursting with flowing white gowns and glittering accessories. Was not this meant to be thrilling? A passage of passage. A dream fulfilled.

A few dreams.

As we entered, the bell above the door chimed, and I was instantly hit by a flood of warm air and the stinging aroma of perfume. To welcome us, the small woman running the store — who had flawlessly coiffed hair — almost tumbled over herself.

"Miss Santos! To be here is an honor. And cheerful birthday!" Her eyes gleamed with confidence, and her grin was real and broad.

I made myself grin back; my face felt rigid and unnatural. "Thank you," I said, the words like ashes in my mouth.

My eighth birthday It was meant to be a celebration, a milestone event. Rather, it meant I was merely one more step toward marriage to Lysander. Another day passed, marking the countdown to my release from freedom.

Surrounded by lace and tulle and promises of happily ever after, we were pushed farther into the store and I couldn't help but think about Lysander. He had been far away for some years, our meetings limited to official gatherings and awkward exchanges. The only consistent was the endless flow of pricey gifts, as though he could purchase my love with brand labels and jewels.

And now, he would have to terminate his affairs with our participation about to be made public. Models and actors hanging off his arm at galas are no more. The tabloids no longer include shameful pictures. Just me. His future bride-to-be. His property.

"Only six months until your wedding, if I am correctly informed?" The owner of the store chipped in, yanking me from my reverie.

Not sure I could talk, I nodded. I worked the arithmetic in my brain. 166 days before I had to trade one gilded cage for another.

Beside me, Ava caught my gaze. Her appearance was informed and sympathetic. She had learnt to control her tantrums and to hide her actual ideas behind a façade of apathy. But I could see the fire in her eyes, the quiet revolt that reflected mine.

The truth of my circumstances appeared to shut in around me as we were guided into a private changing room. Surrounded by white, ivory and cream racks of wedding gowns, each one a representation of the future I was being pushed into. My voice grew shallow and my throat contracted.

"Kylie, get it together;" I scolded myself. "You cannot split apart. Not Here. Not right now."

I raised my chin, squared my shoulders. Nobody knew I was a pawn in a game of power rather than the joyful bride-to-be. I had a part to perform; hence, I would be damned if I didn't perform it exactly.

"So, dear, what sort of dress were you hoping for?" With her honey syrupy voice, my mother asked. Like any mother and daughter shopping for a wedding out of love instead than necessity.

Ava piped before I could respond. "The naked kind," she remarked with sarcastic tone.

The owner of the store laughed, a tinkling sound that irritated me. "There's time for that on the wedding night; do you not think?"

My cheeks burned, a mix of shame and resentment. As though my wedding night was something to look forward to rather than cause anxiety.

Turning aside those ideas, I looked at the dress racks. Should I be doing this, I could as well go all out. I answered, drawing out the most costly gown I could see, "This one." Threads of platinum spun through the fabric, giving the brocade an extraordinary sheen in the light.

"Oh, great choice!" The owner of the store gasped. "Mr. Vincenzo will be much delighted. He really has great taste, you know."

For a brief instant, my smile wavered. I thought bitterly, and then she knew him better than I did. Today, Lysander was as much a stranger to me as he had been over three years before, when this joke of an engagement started.

The next few hours passed in a haze of fittings and changes, hollow laughs, and false grins. The sun was setting, creating long shadows across the streets blanketed in snow by the time we left the store.

I let out a breath I hadn't noticed I'd been holding as we climbed into the waiting car. One more action toward the unavoidable. Still more features of my future chosen for me.

There seemed to be no time at all and endless travel to New York. We were dragging up to a posh hotel before I realized it — its tall bulk throwing a shadow over the busy street below.

"Why aren't we housed at the Vincenzo mansion?" Rosy asked, confusion wrinkled on her brow.

"Politics," our mother said, her tone suggesting no more inquiry.

I saw, though. Three years of cautious cooperation still lacked mutual confidence. I felt glad. Until I had to, I wanted not to set foot in that estate. Up until it turned into my jail.

Rosy, Ava, and I crowded together on one of the fluffy mattresses once we were established in our suite. Overhead, like a rain cloud, the weight of the forthcoming bridal shower and wedding hung.

"Do we absolutely have to show up for the bridal shower tomorrow?" Rosy whined and fluttered back dramatically onto the pillows.

Ava laughed and snorted. "Remember, Kylie is the happy bride." Though I could detect the underlying anxiety, her voice was full of contempt.

I groaned and ran a hand over my hair. "It's simply one more hoop to leap through. We can work through it together.