The mirror doesn't lie, but sometimes I wish it would.
I stare at my reflection in the floor-length glass, and the woman looking back at me is someone I barely recognize. White silk clings to my body like a second skin—custom-made, Italian, obscenely expensive. Lorenzo's money paid for it, which makes my stomach turn. The dress is beautiful in a lethal sort of way. No lace, no frills. Just clean lines and a neckline that suggests rather than reveals. My mother would have hated it. She always said a bride should look soft, feminine, untouchable.
I look like I'm going to war.
Which, I suppose, I am.
My hands are trembling. Just slightly, but enough that I notice. Enough that it pisses me off. I press my palms flat against the vanity and close my eyes, forcing myself to breathe. In throug
