The corset is so tight I can barely breathe. It’s not just fabric; it’s a cage of boning and silk that forces my spine straight and my chest up. I stare at myself in the tri-fold mirror—the same mirror where the red lipstick threat was scrawled days ago.
The glass is clean now, but I can still see the ghost of the letters. Red looks better on you.
I don't look like a bride. I look like a marble statue carved to decorate a tomb. The veil is heavy, a cascade of lace meant to hide the fear in my eyes. My hair is pinned up so tight my scalp aches. Every inch of me is polished, primed, and prepared for the slaughter.
"Don't faint," I whisper to my reflection. "Do not let them see you shake."
The door opens behind me. I flinch, my hand going to my throat.
It’s Nikos.
My oldest brother is
