On each one of my arms lies a crystal bejeweled strap right beneath the shoulder. They don't have a purpose since they don't hold up the heart-shaped neckline, one that is equally bedazzled. It's built-in corset has my breasts perked up unnaturally and my waistline cinched to a size even smaller than my already petite self. Poofing out from there is the lace fabric that's draped over an enormous underskirt, making my bodily proportions seem ridiculously disproportionate.

My seamstress lets out a satisfied hum of a noise before looking over me thoughtfully. I watch in the mirror as she walks around me, her gaze going up and down with the occasional fluff of my dress with her hand here and there. Her index finger taps her chin as she utters something under her breath before taking off out of the room.

My hands fidget uneasily with one another, my right wringing my left wrist, as I look over this version of myself again. My reflection is hardly one I recognize and the dress is not the only thing making me feel that way. It's the overly done make-up on my face and the hair piled on top of my head. It's the gaudy ring sitting on my finger. It's the shoes making me a good five inches taller than my normal self. All of these things altered, designed, tailored to me, for me and yet there is none of me in this image.

"You look like a doll," Tristan's deep voice startles me to the point of nearly falling off the pedestal I'm standing on. "Be careful, Bride Barbie. Don't want you to twist your ankle before the big day." His hands steady me from behind until I'm firmly upright again. "There we go." He lets out a low whistle as one of his hands leaves my waist and goes to finger one of the straps of my dress. "This is a rather shiny number."

"Ostentatious would be an understatement, if you ask me. There's enough crystals embellishing this thing to fill up an entire jewelry store." I wouldn't actually want to be married in anything like it. Simplicity. That's all I've ever wanted in a wedding, if I ever have one of my choosing, not that I'd ever really let myself picture getting married in recent years. It had been too painful to hope for much of anything at one point in my life, let alone marriage during that time. I bring my hand to my abdomen somberly at the memory.

"You hardly need the dress to light up a room but it does shimmer quite a bit. Give us a twirl." He twists his pointer finger around playfully, trying to lighten my now dreary mood, I'm sure.

"It's all a bit... much." My hands twist against each other again as I glance at my heavily-lined grey eyes.

Tristan leans in close to my ear, "I do prefer you with a lot less on. Of the makeup, that is," he quickly interjects, pulling himself away. "You never really wear any." He coughs and looks away from me.

I swallow the feelings that had threatened to choke me down before saying, "that's because I never have a reason to wear it." Other than the bare minium at dinner in the evenings. "I'm locked inside a mountainside fortress, or did you forget?" Not to mention that it'd be a moot point most days considering the fact I have a tendency to break down into tears at any given moment. 

"How could I, I'm with you nearly every day."

Every day. Every night in my bed. Arms wrapped around me. Body pressed against mine.

"Stop that." Tristan grabs ahold of my hands. I hadn't even realized I'd given myself a red ring around my wrist.

A heavy sigh leaves my lips on its' own accord with, "you know what they say about the groom seeing the bride before the wedding and all that." My voice is little more than a whisper at his proximity. "Don't want to jinx anything." We can't afford any bad luck right now.

He shrugs, hazel eyes holding mine in the mirror, "if we were actually getting married maybe then I would be concerned." Even on this stool, with these heels, he's still a touch taller than me, well, aside from my towering hair. "From the state you're in right now, I think it's going to be this coming weekend."

"The wedding?"

"Yes."

Because it's not like we've been given a set date or time or been allowed to set our own, like a normal couple, not that we are a normal couple. We aren't even a real couple. Come to think of it, I haven't been in one relationship that wasn't originally based off of lies. Why should my first marriage be anything different?

Blinking a few times but maintaining eye contact I picture if we were real, if our act wasn't an act at all. What if the nights he spent holding me weren't out of obligation but out of something more? It's been feeling that way for quite some time, if I'm honest with myself.

As if to answer the thoughts rolling around in my mind, Tristan leans in and places his lips on the curve of my neck. It's something he's made a habit of, whether it's out of comfort or desire I'm not really sure. The kiss sends shivers across my skin, making goosebumps arise in its' wake as he pulls away with a breathy, "I'm sorry."

"It's fine."

"Dani, I—"

"Your mother found the perfect," the seamstress interrupts then abruptly stops, eyes snapping to Tristan's large frame in mortification. She proceeds to shoo him from the room, saying things to him in Albanian that I know he doesn't understand. Once he's left the room she turns back to me sternly, "he should not be seeing you like this until the day of the wedding."

"I tripped over my heels and nearly fell. He only came in because I screamed."

"Then I should thank him for saving you and the dress, I suppose. Now, time to add the final touch." It's only now that I see the sparkling tiara she's holding. She walks up to me, standing on a stool of her own to place the item atop my head. I look like a princess, a garish one, to say the least. "You are perfection, my dear."

"She is, indeed." My mother's voice has my eyes tearing from the tiara and going to her. "You look beautiful, Daniela." The warm smile she gives me is one that has me thinking that maybe she really does care about me. Then I remember that she's caged me up in this place, taken away my son, and is making me get married to the man outside the door. "Leave us." She waves the seamstress away absently. "You look ready for the wedding but are you actually ready for it?" I nod with a fake smile. "Good."

"Have you decided on the day?"

"We have."

✩✩✩

My gaze goes back and forth between Torey and Brooks for what seems like the millionth time. Torey has been acting much of his usual self, dominating the conversation with their plans, but Brooks seems off. When he turns his head to the side I see the reasoning for that; a red blemish on the side of his neck, one that resembles teeth marks. It's not a mystery who it came from knowing how the man currently speaking likes to mark his territory.

A wave of agitation rolls through me at the fact that they're clearly doing certain things without me. It's not like we've had time to discuss the parameters of our relationship, or what we are to one another, considering the fact Torey was fucking stabbed and I was imprisoned. But it's obvious that the two of them don't mind fooling around while I'm being held captive.

Not saying a word I push off the couch and take my leave from the conversation. I hear Brooks call my name with a tone full of concern but I don't care. I've spent my days pretending to be something I'm not, putting on a whole charade, and, more recently, I've been wondering if it's just an act or if I actually have feelings for the man I'm fake-engaged to.

"Dani, is everything okay?"

"Yeah, fine."

Tristan walks up beside me, placing a hand on my mid-back with, "you sure you're good?"

"Confused," I answer honestly.

"I know all of the strategy talk can be disconcerting."

"Right," I glance over to where we'd just been talking, "are they still on?"

"No, I ended the conversation." Again. Without me saying goodbye. I suppose it's a good thing since I'm not really in the mood to fake any more cheery dispositions at the moment. His brow furrows as he looks me over, "I was worried because you got up so abruptly. I thought you'd heard something or seen something."

"Because you haven't been cutting nearly all of our calls off, right."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard what I said, Tristan. You have cut nearly all of our calls off with them before I'm able to say goodbye or have a proper talk with Brooks or Torey." His jaw ticks and his hand pulls away from my back. "Why?"

"It's not intentional."

"That's bullshit."

"I'm sorry I heard something and that an alarm went off and, oh, let's not forget the fact that we are completely fucked if we're found out. Well, you're fucked and I'm just fucking dead, so there's that, Dani." His words are a fiercely growled whisper-shout.

"So it's not because you're jealous?" The question left my lips in a deadpan before I'd even thought about it, making him take a step back and assess me. He looks me up and down in a cool manner before shaking his head and looking off into the corner of the room, hands now molded to each hip. "Tristan, I'm sorry. I'm just really stressed and confused and I don't know... a lot of things right now."

"What, you don't think I am any and all of the things that you are, that you said? Because, yes, I am jealous. After spending these last few months with you, gradually falling for you every single day, I have to risk our lives to hand you back over to that fucking controlling prick." He spears an angry hand through his hair before planting it back on his hip.

"Tristan, I know this is hard for you but—"

"Don't," he interrupts, eyes snapping shut. "Spare me the details of what I already know. It has been well established that there shouldn't be anything between us. But do not act like I am the only one who fucking feels something."

"I never said that. I don't mean to act like that."

"Then how do you mean to act?!" Those angry hazel depths fly to mine. "Huh?" He steps into my personal space, making me look up at him. "When you have me hold you close every night. When you get dressed and undressed in front of me. When you look at me like you want me, touch me like you want me. Tell me. Tell me how hard it is for me." I shake my head, feeling tears burn my eyes, wanting release. "Tell me, Daniela, tell me how you mean to act with me. Tell me what you want from me. Better yet, tell me how I'm supposed to act."

"I don't know."

"No, please, tell me."

"I don't know what you want me to say."

"I want you to give me an answer."

"I don't know. I don't know! I don't know!" The last bit has me shoving into his chest angrily. "I don't know anything anymore."

A/N:
It feels good to be able to update and actually have some time to write. My days have been hectic and seriously stressful, leaving me little time to sit down and type words.

Hope you all enjoyed the update.
♥️