Page 135 of Ruthless Vow
I’m not sure I will. But I climb into the SUV anyway, sliding across leather seats. Giada settles beside me. One guard takesthe front passenger seat, another the driver’s position. The doors close with a heavy, armored thunk.
We pull through the gates, and I watch the compound shrink in the side mirror. The wrought iron. The magnolia trees. The world I’m still learning to call home.
“Dante’s orders,” Giada says, as if reading my thoughts. “After Romano, he’s not taking chances. Not with you.”
Not with you.
The words settle somewhere beneath my ribs. Three months ago, no one would have noticed if I disappeared. Now the most dangerous man in New Orleans sends armed guards to protect me while I shop for wedding dresses.
My hands press flat against my thighs. I hold them there until the trembling stops.
So I do what I always do: file it away and focus on the task at hand.
The boutique is on Magazine Street, all white walls and crystal chandeliers and racks of silk and tulle that cost more than my car. My old car. The one I sold when I moved into the compound because Dante’s wife doesn’t drive a ten-year-old Honda with a dent in the bumper.
The guards take positions. One near the door, arms crossed, surveying. One outside, visible through the window. The boutique attendants exchange glances but say nothing. They know who we are. They know whose money we’re spending.
“So.” Giada steers me toward the racks. “Ceremony gown first. Then reception.”
“Two dresses?”
“Two dresses. No question.” She pulls a gown from the rack, holds it up, wrinkles her nose, puts it back. “The ceremony is sacred. Traditional. The reception is where you show them who you are.”
I trail my fingers along the fabrics. White. Ivory. Cream. Blush. So many versions of the same color, the same expectation. Be a bride. Be pure. Be everything they want you to be.
My hand stops on a simple A-line. Conservative neckline. Minimal beading. The kind of gown that disappears into a crowd.
“No.”
I look up. Giada is staring at the dress like it offended her.
“What?”
“That.” She gestures at my choice. “That’s what the old Cassia would have picked. The one who didn’t want to be noticed.”
She takes it from my hands, hangs it back on the rack.
“You’re not hiding anymore. You don’t have to dress like you are.”
The words land harder than they should. Because she’s right. I reached for invisibility without even thinking about it. Muscle memory. Twenty-four years of making myself smaller.
“I don’t know how to choose something else,” I admit. The confession scrapes on the way out.
Giada’s expression softens. “That’s why I’m here.”
She disappears into the racks and returns with three gowns draped over her arm. Each one bolder than anything I would have chosen. A mermaid silhouette in ivory. A ballgown with a plunging back. A sheath with intricate beading that catches the light like scattered stars.
“Try them,” she says. “All of them. And stop shrinking yourself with your posture.”
She’s right. My shoulders are curled in, my chin tucked down. Protective camouflage. I straighten my spine and take the gowns.
The first is beautiful. Too beautiful. I look like I’m playing dress-up, a little girl wearing her mother’s clothes.
The second is stunning. But it’s not me. Too dramatic, too look-at-me, too much.
The third.
The third is ivory silk that moves like water. A deep V-back that shows the knobs of my spine. A train that pools behind me with assurance. The beading is delicate, not overwhelming. Stars scattered across a night sky.
