I felt like a doll.
Not the kind little girls loved—but the kind kept behind glass.
I stood before the floor-to-ceiling window of the private mansion, a doll dressed in white silk and lace.
The dress was a marvel of Dante's impeccable, sadistic taste. It was heavy—so heavy I could barely breathe, the layers of tulle and hand-stitched pearls pinning me to the floor. It was designed to make a a woman look like a dream while quietly suffocating her underneath.
Dante had chosen it.
Of course he had.
Hours earlier, he had washed me himself. His hands had been unhurried, almost reverent, as if he were restoring a priceless artifact instead of preparing a woman for a marriage she didn't want. He said he liked my hair—its texture, the way it softened beneath his fingers.
"I'd know you anywhere," he'd murmured while braiding it himself. "Even blind."
The memory made my stomach twist.
