Sunlight spilled through the balcony doors like melted butter, warm and golden. Birdsong drifted up from the gardens—real birds, not Marcella's mechanical monstrosities—and for one perfect moment, I thought I was home. Mama humming in the library, Papa's laughter echoing from the terrace, the Mediterranean glittering beyond our villa…
Then the knock came.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
I burrowed deeper into the pillows, groaning. Too early for Drevane tyranny. Go away.
"Mademoiselle Veyron?" A muffled voice through the door. "We've come for your fattening."
I blinked. Fattening?
Sleep-fogged brain conjured horrors: were they force-feeding me? Like geese for pâté? Is this how they prepare brides? I yanked the covers over my head. "Go away!"
Another knock, sharper this time. "Your fittings, mademoiselle. For the wedding gown."
Fittings. Not fattening.
The shock hit like ice water.
The wedding. Three days. The ivory straitjacket.
I sat bolt upright—and froze.
No wig.
My roots were exposed: dark as midnight bleeding into ashy gold, a map of every lie I'd told. Selene's hair was never this messy, I thought wildly, scrambling off the bed. Marcella would have me scrubbing floors for this.
I dove for the floor where I'd kicked the wig last night. Where is it—? There. Tangled in the silk sheets, looking like a discarded spiderweb. Hands shaking, I wrestled it onto my head, pinning stray strands with trembling fingers. Too high? Too lopsided? I caught my reflection in the gilded mirror—platinum strands askew, cheeks flushed, eyes wide with panic—and forced Selene's vacant smile. Perfect. Just like the mannequin they ordered.
I smoothed Selene's ivory robe over my pajamas and flung open the door.
Three maids stood there, holding garment bags like sacred relics. The lead one—a woman with eyes sharp as a seamstress's needle—barely glanced at my face. Her gaze dropped to my bare feet, then flicked up to my wig. She sees it, I realized. The too-perfect part. The chemical smell.
"Your measurements have been confirmed, mademoiselle," she said, gliding past me without waiting for permission. "The gown requires final adjustments."
Adjustments. The word slithered under my skin. As if I'm a piece of furniture.
They spread out like silent invaders. One unzipped the garment bag—ivory silk spilling out like liquid moonlight—while another knelt to measure my ankles with calipers. The third held a notepad, scribbling notes with clinical precision.
"Stand straight, please," Needle-Eyes ordered, pinning the hem against my legs. "Monsieur Drevane insists on precision."
Precision. As if my body were a blueprint. As if I were a blueprint.
I locked my knees, staring at the Orada Sea beyond the balcony. This isn't happening. This is the dream. The real Amara is still in Monaco, feeding seagulls with Papa…
Then Needle-Eyes pricked my ankle with a pin.
"Aie!" The French word slipped out before I could stop it.
All three maids froze.
Selene doesn't speak French.
I forced a giggle—the kind Selene used when flirting with waiters. "Silly me! I meant ouch!"
Needle-Eyes's pen hovered. "Mademoiselle Veyron speaks French?"
"Only… bonjour and merci," I chirped, channeling Selene's airhead act. "My tutor said I have no ear for languages!"
She studied me a beat too long, then nodded. "Raise your arms, please."
As I lifted my arms, the robe gaped open. The maid gasped.
Not at my bare shoulders.
At the scar on my wrist—a thin, silver line from when I was ten, restoring a medieval codex with Mama. Blood and vellum and her hands guiding mine: "This pain? It's the ink of your story."
Needle-Eyes's professional mask didn't crack. Didn't flicker. She simply noted something on her pad and stepped back. "The gown fits perfectly," she declared, though her voice was flatter than before. "Monsieur Drevane will be pleased."
Pleased. The word tasted like ash.
They packed up the garment bags, leaving only the scent of starch and dread. When the door clicked shut, I tore off the wig and sank to the ffloor.
It wasn't yet over.
The fattening had to be done by grandma
It is only that cared to be very precise about it.
Why?
She wanted grandchildren!
What a life!
Three days. Not a dream. Not a nightmare. A countdown.