Chapter 34 Fever Dreams and French Toast
Valentina
I woke up feeling like I was trapped inside a fever dream.
One of those too-bright, too-loud, too-perfect nightmares that blur the line between fantasy and fraud until you can’t tell what’s real anymore.
Today, I was the bride.
The fake fiancée.
The woman about to walk down an aisle in a dress that cost more than my college education, toward a man who’d slaughtered my family—and somehow had the nerve to kiss my knuckles like he meant it.
It was all fake.
Except the gown was real.
The sapphire heirloom waiting in my jewelry box was real.
And Alessio’s proud, watery-eyed smile as he rehearsed giving me away?
Real enough to haunt me.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and walked to my little kitchen, ignoring the pristine breakfast tray someone had left on the table. My mouth tasted like nerves and regret. Definitely not croissants.
Instead, I padded barefoot to the little crystal decanter on the counter.
I keep it there for emergencies.
Today counted.
Pulling off the top, I poured myself a shot of bourbon—Matteo’s private reserve. The good stuff. The kind that burned less going down and more once it hit your chest.
I tossed it back, wincing only slightly, then muttered under my breath, “Let’s get married, you lying son of a bitch.”
A knock sounded at the door before I could pour another.
“Come in.”
Carol stepped in with a motherly no-nonsense look and a second breakfast tray—this one steaming, stacked with toast, fruit, and something eggy I didn’t recognize but was too tired to argue with.
“Oh good, you’re up,” she said briskly. “Sit. Eat.”
“I’m good, thanks.”
“You’re about to put on a fifty thousand-dollar dress and stand in heels for six hours. You need more than bourbon and defiance in your stomach, dear.”
I blinked at her. “How do you—?”
“You think I haven’t done this before?” she cut in, setting the tray down with a clatter. “Eat the damn toast.”
I sat.
Because arguing with Carol was like shouting at a hurricane.
She busied herself with tidying the room while I reluctantly chewed on a piece of cinnamon French toast. Okay, fine. It was actually incredible. Still didn’t mean I appreciated being wrangled.
Just as I polished off the last bite, two women breezed through the door—one with a rolling makeup kit, the other with a tower of curling irons and enough hairspray to ignite a wildfire.
I blinked.
“Um. Who are they?”
“Your glam squad,” Carol replied casually, fluffing a pillow behind me on the sofa.
“I didn’t book anyone. And I know damn well Audrey didn’t lift a finger for the bride. She’s probably too busy trying to coordinate her cleavage for the groom.”
Carol snorted. “Please. That little peacock doesn’t run anything that matters.”
She turned to the stylists and smiled warmly. “Girls, this is our bride. Work your magic.”
Then to me, she added, “I booked them last week. Figured you had enough on your plate and might try to do it yourself. But no bride will be doing her own hair and makeup on my watch.”
I stared at her, stunned.
Carol just winked and handed me a glass of orange juice like she hadn’t just reshuffled my whole morning with a power move and a breakfast tray.
And for the first time all day, something cracked through the fog.
A small smile.
It didn’t mean I wasn’t still walking into a palace built on lies.
But it reminded me I wasn’t entirely alone.
The woman with the makeup kit—Mira, according to her name tag—unfolded a tall black chair like she was setting up for battle.
Her partner, a petite blonde with enough tattoos to be mistaken for an art exhibit, followed suit by plugging in an army of tools. Curlers. Wands. A blow dryer that looked more like a jet engine.
“Alright, beautiful,” Mira said cheerfully, patting the seat. “Up you go.”
The chair was higher than I expected, forcing me to awkwardly climb in with all the grace of a tired flamingo. The minute I settled, Mira adjusted the angle, clipped a cape around my neck, and clicked on a bright halo light with an ominous bzzt.
“Any inspo?” she asked, already smoothing primer onto the back of her hand. “Glam, romantic, full bombshell? Matte or dewy skin? Bold lips or soft neutral?”
I blinked.
“I—uh—I haven’t really thought about it.”
Both stylists paused for half a beat.
Then Mira gave a knowing smile. “Wedding snuck up on you, huh?”
“You could say that.”
The tattooed one—who introduced herself as Calyx—stepped behind me and started brushing through my hair, sectioning it off with clips.
“Well, no stress,” she said, already eyeing my face like a painter assessing a canvas. “We’ve got you. You’ve got great bone structure, killer lashes, and the kind of lips people pay to recreate.”
“I… thanks?”
Mira winked. “Translation: you’re hot, and we’re going to make you hotter.”
I laughed—surprised by how genuine it felt.
“Okay then,” I said, relaxing into the chair. “Do whatever you want. Artist’s choice.”
Calyx’s eyes lit up like Christmas morning. “Ooh, I love when brides say that.”
“Same,” Mira agreed. “Alright, soft glam with a twist coming up. Trust the process.”
I did.
For once, I let go of the reins and just… sat there. Let them tug and tease and sweep and blend. Let the heat of the curling iron chase away the last bit of chill clinging to my skin. Let the scents of rosewater setting spray and buttery hair serum replace the bourbon bite in the air.
Carol reappeared halfway through, arms crossed, nodding her silent approval from the corner like some kind of wedding-day bouncer.
And somewhere between the highlighter and the final hair pin, I caught my own reflection in the mirror and barely recognized the woman looking back.
Elegant. Effortless. A little haunted, sure.
But striking.
Like she belonged on a magazine cover… or a battlefield.