Chapter 24 Wedding Preparations (Thalia's POV)
I stand on a raised platform surrounded by mirrors, encased in forty pounds of white silk and lace that cost more than most people's annual salary. The dress is a masterpiece of haute couture… hand-embroidered crystals catching the light, layers of tulle creating a skirt that could house a small family, a corset so tightly laced I can barely breathe.
I look like a princess from a fairytale.
I feel like I'm suffocating.
"Exquisite," the designer breathes, circling me with pins in her mouth and calculation in her eyes. French accent, probably fake. "Absolutely exquisite. The silhouette is perfection, the detail work is divine, and the way the crystals catch the light… magnifique!"
"It's very nice," I manage, trying to sound enthusiastic instead of trapped.
"Nice?" Morrigan's voice cuts from her position on the cream sofa. "Thalia, this dress was created by one of the world's premier designers specifically for you. 'Nice' is what you say about acceptable weather, not about a gown that will be photographed and discussed for generations."
"Of course. I'm sorry." I force a smile. "It's beautiful. Truly."
The designer beams, missing… or ignoring… the hollowness in my voice. "We will need one more fitting, perhaps two. You've lost weight since the measurements, oui?" She pinches the fabric at my waist. "We must take in here, and here, and adjust the bust line."
"I haven't lost weight." The lie is automatic.
"You have." Petra speaks up from her position near the door. She's been shadowing me constantly since the dinner with Casimir, never more than ten feet away, watching everything. "At least five pounds in the last week. I've noticed your clothes fitting differently."
"Stress," I say quickly. "Wedding planning is stressful."
"Stress or not, you need to eat properly." Morrigan stands, moving to inspect the dress from a different angle. "The photographs will be seen by every major pack in Europe. You need to look healthy, vibrant, not gaunt and exhausted."
I want to laugh. Want to scream that maybe I'm gaunt and exhausted because I've been systematically poisoned for fourteen years, just discovered I'm a different species than I thought, shifted into wolf form four days ago, had prophetic visions last night, and I'm currently planning to meet my secret mate on a river cruise at midnight to discuss how to prevent a blood curse that will kill his entire family.
But I don't. I just smile and nod. "I'll eat more. I promise."
The designer continues pinning and tucking, chattering about trains and veils and something called a "cathedral length" that apparently matters. I tune her out, staring at my reflection and trying to recognize the person looking back.
The dress transforms me into someone elegant and untouchable. Someone who belongs in magazines and political negotiations. Someone who definitely isn't nineteen years old and terrified.
My eyes are the only thing that don't match the image. They're too bright, too amber, carrying hints of gold that no amount of professional makeup can fully conceal. Anyone who looks closely enough will see that something is different. Something has changed.
"The veil will help," Morrigan murmurs, as if reading my thoughts. She's moved to stand beside me, studying our reflections together. "We'll use heavier fabric, slightly tinted. It will soften the overall effect."
Translation: it will hide my eyes.
"Whatever you think is best," I say flatly.
Her hand touches my shoulder… brief, impersonal contact that might look affectionate to the designer but feels like a claim of ownership. "You're doing well, Thalia. This alliance will secure our family's future for generations."
"How wonderful for our family." I can't quite keep the bitterness out.
Her hand tightens slightly before releasing. "We'll discuss your attitude later. For now, finish the fitting. We have the venue tour at two, menu tasting at four, and florist consultation at six."
"Of course." I'm a doll being dressed and positioned. A chess piece being moved around the board. A beautiful prop in someone else's production.
The fitting takes another forty minutes. The designer pins and measures and makes satisfied noises while I stand motionless, barely breathing in the too-tight corset. My enhanced senses make every touch of fabric against skin overwhelming… I can feel individual threads, detect the chemical residue from the dye process, smell the mixture of perfumes and anxieties in the room.
Finally, mercifully, they unzip the back and I can breathe again.
"Perfect," the designer declares. "We will have everything ready in three weeks. The final fitting will be one week before the ceremony, oui?"
"Perfect," Morrigan echoes, already pulling out her phone to check our schedule.
I change back into my clothes… simple jeans and sweater that feel like freedom after the wedding dress prison. In the changing room, I catch another glimpse of myself in the mirror. No elaborate gown now, just me. Tired eyes. Too-pale skin. The ghost of someone I used to be before the world turned upside down.
My phone buzzes. Text from Lucien: "How's your day?"
I almost laugh. How's my day. Like this is normal life with normal concerns.
"Being fitted for wedding dress. Feels like preparing for my own funeral."
"That's darkly poetic. Very you."
"I try. How's yours?"
"Planning misdirection campaigns and trying not to panic about accelerating timelines. So, you know. Normal Tuesday."
Despite everything, I smile. "See you tonight. I need this meeting more than you know."
"Me too. I love you."
"Love you too."
I tuck the phone away as Petra knocks on the changing room door. "Miss Thornewood? Your mother is ready to leave."
"Coming."
The venue tour is a blur of elegant spaces that all look identical. Grand ballrooms with crystal chandeliers. Marble floors. Sweeping staircases. The event coordinator walks us through logistics I don't care about… guest flow, seating arrangements, lighting effects. Morrigan asks pointed questions about security and pack protocol. I nod at appropriate moments and think about anything except the fact that I'll be standing in one of these rooms in five weeks, binding myself to Casimir for the rest of my immortal life.
Unless I can figure out how to avoid it.
Unless tonight's meeting produces a miracle.
Unless I'm brave enough to choose the third option everyone keeps mentioning but no one can actually define.
"What do you think, Thalia?" Morrigan's voice cuts through my distraction.
I blink. We're standing in what the coordinator called the "Rose Ballroom" …all cream and gold, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking manicured gardens. "It's lovely."
"But do you prefer this one or the Grand Hall we saw earlier?"
They look identical to me. "This one."
"Are you certain? The Grand Hall has more historical significance."
"I'm certain." I'm not certain about anything, but agreeing gets us out of here faster.
Morrigan discusses deposit details with the coordinator while I wander to the windows. The gardens are actually beautiful… roses in full bloom despite the season, intricate paths winding through carefully maintained beds, a fountain in the center with water that catches afternoon light.
For a moment, I imagine being here under different circumstances. Coming to this venue because I chose it, planning a wedding because I wanted to, standing in this room because it represents a future I'm excited about rather than one I'm dreading.
The fantasy dissolves quickly. That's not my reality. My reality is political marriages and blood curses and prophetic visions of children with golden eyes standing between warring wolves.
"All settled," Morrigan announces, joining me at the window. "The Rose Ballroom is booked. We'll finalize catering after today's tasting."
"Great."
She studies me for a moment. "You've been distracted all day. Is something wrong?"
"Just tired. Didn't sleep well."
"Bad dreams?" Her tone is carefully neutral but I smell the spike of interest underneath.
"Nothing specific. Just restless." I'm getting better at lying. Four days of practice has improved my skills considerably.
"Perhaps should examine you. Make sure you're healthy enough for the stress of wedding preparations."
The physician who questioned my suppressant dosage and got fired for her concerns.
"I'm fine," I say firmly. "Just normal wedding stress. Nothing medical attention can fix."
"Nevertheless, I'll arrange a consultation." She checks her phone again. "We need to leave for the menu tasting. The car is waiting."
The restaurant is absurdly expensive… the kind of place where you need a reservation months in advance and the waitstaff wear white gloves. We're escorted to a private room where a chef in a spotless uniform waits to present potential wedding menu options.
"We've prepared seven courses for your consideration," he explains, gesturing to the elaborately set table. "Each course can be customized to accommodate specific dietary requirements or cultural traditions."
Seven courses. I'm barely managing to eat one meal a day without my enhanced senses making every flavor overwhelming.
"Wonderful," Morrigan says. "Please, begin."
The first course is some kind of soup… lobster bisque, according to the chef's description. It tastes like the ocean concentrated into liquid form, every mineral and salt crystal distinct on my tongue. I manage three spoonfuls before setting down my spoon.
"Not to your taste?" the chef asks, concern in his voice.
"It's delicious. I'm just not very hungry."
"Try the second course," Morrigan says. Not a suggestion. A command.
The second course is seared scallops with citrus reduction. The third is duck confit with cherry compote. The fourth is filet mignon with truffle butter. Each one is expertly prepared, beautifully presented, and completely overwhelming to my enhanced palate.
By the fifth course… some elaborate dessert involving chocolate and gold leaf… I'm nauseous and barely holding myself together.
"The menu is acceptable," Morrigan tells the chef. "We'll confirm specific courses after discussing with the groom's preferences."
The chef beams. "Excellent. I'll prepare a full proposal by end of week."
We're finally released from the restaurant. I stumble to the car feeling sick and exhausted and utterly done with wedding preparations.
"One more stop," Morrigan says as we pull into traffic. "The florist consultation should be quick."
"Can we skip it?" The question escapes before I can stop it. "I don't care about flowers. You can choose whatever you think is appropriate."
"Thalia." Her voice carries warning. "This is your wedding. You need to be involved in the decisions."
"It's not my wedding. It's a political alliance disguised as a wedding." I'm too tired to hide the bitterness. "None of this is about me. It's about pack positioning and territorial control and everything except what I actually want."
"What you want is irrelevant to alliance marriages." She says it matter-of-factly, like it's obvious. "Personal preference is a luxury we can't afford."
"Of course. How silly of me to want any say in my own life."
"Your life is not solely yours." She turns to face me, and I smell the anger underneath her controlled expression. "You're Thornewood heir. Your choices affect thousands of wolves. Your happiness is secondary to pack welfare."
"My happiness has always been secondary. To pack welfare, to your plans, to political necessity." I meet her gaze directly. "When do I get to matter? When do I become more than just a useful pawn?"
"When you demonstrate the maturity to understand that sometimes pawns serve the greater good." She's not backing down. "You're nineteen years old, Thalia. You don't have the experience or perspective to make decisions that affect pack future."
"And I never will if you keep me ignorant and controlled." The argument is pointless but I can't stop. "How am I supposed to develop maturity and perspective when you won't let me make any real choices?"
"This conversation is over." She turns away, staring out the window. "We're going to the florist. You will be polite and engaged. Then we're returning home for dinner, after which you will rest. Tomorrow we have dress designer consultations and venue security assessments."
Tomorrow I won't be here. Tomorrow I'll be dealing with whatever comes from tonight's meeting. Tomorrow the four-day countdown will be three days and Ravenna will be one day closer to arriving with her tactical team.
But I don't say that. I just nod. "Yes, Mother."
The florist consultation is mercifully brief. We look at bouquets and centerpieces and something called "ceremony arches" while the florist chatters about seasonal availability and color palettes. I agree to whatever Morrigan suggests and think about midnight on the Thames.
By the time we return to the penthouse, it's past seven PM. I've been performing Perfect Dutiful Daughter for eleven hours straight and I'm ready to break.
"Dinner at eight," Morrigan says as we enter. "Petra will bring something light to your room. You look exhausted."
"I am exhausted."
"Then rest." She actually sounds concerned, though I smell the calculation underneath. "Tomorrow will be another long day."
I escape to my room and collapse on the bed, not even bothering to change out of my clothes. Petra arrives ten minutes later with a tray… soup, bread, fruit. Things she thinks I can manage without overwhelming my senses.
"You need to eat, Miss Thornewood," she says gently, setting the tray on my desk. "You've barely had anything today."
"I know." I sit up, forcing myself to at least try. "Thank you, Petra."
She hovers in the doorway. "Are you feeling alright? You seem... different lately. Since the engagement announcement."
"Just stressed. Normal bride nerves."
"If you need to talk… " She stops. "I know I'm your mother's assistant. But I've known you since you were small. If you need someone to listen, someone who isn't reporting everything back to Morrigan… "
The offer surprises me. "Are you saying you'd keep secrets from my mother?"
"I'm saying I see a young woman being pushed into something she doesn't want. And I remember what that feels like." She meets my gaze. "I was in an arranged marriage once. Twenty years ago. It was... difficult. If I can help you navigate this, I will."
I study her, trying to determine if this is genuine or another manipulation. Her scent suggests sincerity mixed with old pain and something that might be regret.
"Thank you," I say carefully. "I'll remember that."
She nods and leaves, closing the door softly behind her.
I eat the soup mechanically, not tasting it, just getting nutrients into my system because I need energy for tonight. The bread is easier… simpler flavors, less overwhelming. The fruit I skip entirely.
My phone buzzes. Text from Lucien: "Four hours. Hang in there."
"Counting down. This day has been endless."
"Wedding prep?"
"Dress fittings, venue tours, menu tastings, florist consultations. It's like being slowly buried alive in tulle and flower arrangements."
"Sounds horrible."
"It is. I look at myself in that wedding dress and I don't recognize who's looking back. She's beautiful and empty and completely not me."
"You're not empty. You're one of the strongest people I know."
"I don't feel strong. I feel like I'm breaking into pieces and only holding together through sheer stubbornness."
"That's what strength is. Holding together when everything's trying to break you."
His words settle something anxious in my chest. "Thank you. For understanding. For not telling me to just get through it or that it'll all work out."
"It might not work out. We might fail spectacularly. But at least we'll fail together."
"Very romantic."
"I try. See you in four hours. I love you."
"Love you too. So much."
I set down the phone and lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Four hours until I can leave this cage. Four hours until I can see Lucien and Nikolai and discuss actual solutions instead of enduring meaningless wedding preparations.
Four hours feels like an eternity.
I must drift off because suddenly Petra is shaking me awake. "Miss Thornewood? It's ten PM. You asked me to wake you at ten."
I did? I don't remember that but I'm grateful anyway. "Thank you."
"Your mother retired early. Headache. She's asked that you not disturb her tonight."
Perfect. That makes sneaking out significantly easier.
"I won't. I'll just read for a while before bed."
Petra nods and leaves. I wait thirty minutes, listening to her movements in the next room, tracking her bedtime routine through sound. At 10:45, her heartbeat settles into sleep rhythm.
Time to go.
I change into dark clothes… black jeans, navy sweater, jacket with hood. Pull my hair into a braid. Slip my phone into my pocket. Nothing that can be traced, Lucien said. No jewelry, no identification, nothing that marks me as Thalia Thornewood.
The security rotation I memorized days ago holds true. The guards change shift at 11 PM with a three-minute overlap. I use those three minutes to slip into the service stairwell, disable the alarm with the code I memorized, and make my way to the roof access.
The city spreads below me, millions of lights representing millions of lives that have nothing to do with werewolf politics and blood curses and prophetic visions. Normal people living normal lives, blissfully unaware of the supernatural chaos existing alongside their mundane concerns.
I envy them.
Then I think about Lucien, about facing whatever comes next together, and the envy fades. Normal might be easier. But this… this impossible, terrifying, overwhelming thing I'm living… at least it's real. At least it matters. At least I'm making choices, even if they're dangerous ones.
I descend the fire escape with enhanced speed and coordination, dropping to street level with barely a sound. The walk to Westminster Pier takes eighteen minutes at my accelerated pace.
Lucien is already there, standing in shadow near the dock, looking like danger and hope wrapped in human form. When he sees me, the mate bond flares so bright I feel it in my bones.
"You made it," he says, pulling me into his arms.
"Always." I bury my face in his chest, breathing in his scent… pine and rain and safety. "Four hours felt like forever."
"I know." His hand strokes my hair. "But you're here now. And we're going to figure this out."
"Promise?"
"I promise we'll try. That's the best I can offer."
It's enough.
Nikolai appears from further down the dock, carrying what looks like tickets. "Boat boards in ten minutes. Private section secured. No one will overhear."
"Good." Lucien releases me reluctantly.