Destiny Mine (Tormentor Mine #3)(79)

“So not fair that all you have to do is put on a nice suit,” I complain, mock-pouting, and he grins, then drops a quick kiss on my lips, making my pulse jump.

“Behave or else,” he warns, silver eyes gleaming with amusement, and I pinch his side in revenge, making him laugh and kiss me again.

“Hair first,” a flamboyantly dressed young man announces as soon as Peter leaves, and I let myself be guided to the couch where an array of scary-looking styling tools are already spread out in a row.

My hair is still wet from my morning shower, so it’s first blow-dried into submission, then flat-ironed and curled. The updo apparently requires a perfectly smooth cuticle, which my wavy hair doesn’t naturally possess. While that’s happening, my nails are buffed, trimmed, and painted a soft pink shade, and then it’s time for my makeup.

Mom shows up just as the last of the mascara is applied to my lashes. She’s already coiffed to the max and dressed in a long peach dress that emphasizes her still-trim frame.

“Wow,” she breathes as I get up from the couch, and I grin, walking over to hug her.

“You look amazing, Mom.” I draw back to give her a thorough once-over. “I love this dress. When did you get it?”

“Your fiancé had it delivered last night. It’s Chanel. Can you believe it? I was just lamenting to your dad yesterday morning that I wouldn’t find anything decent on such short notice, and then bam, this dress arrives—and magically fits. Can you imagine? Your dad got a new tux too.” She sounds as excited as a teenager going to prom.

“Wow, yeah. That’s amazing.” Peter must’ve installed cameras and/or listening devices at my parents’ place again—an invasion of privacy we’ll need to discuss. For now, though, I’m grateful he was thoughtful enough to include my parents in his insanely thorough brand of wedding planning.

Mom loves to dress up and would’ve been gutted if she’d had to wear an older dress or something she didn’t find sufficiently special.

“How’s Dad?” I ask as Pam and Suzie shoo everyone else out of the apartment and make me strip down to my underwear to try on the dress.

“He’s good. Still processing all this, but—” Mom gasps as she sees the dress. “Wow, Sara. That’s gorgeous!”

“It’s Monique Lhuillier,” Pam proudly tells her as Suzie helps me put it on and fastens the buttons in the back. “All handmade lace—every inch of it.”

“Sara, that’s…” Mom blinks several times, then audibly sniffles. “Darling, you look so beautiful… simply out of this world, like some kind of fairy princess.”

“Really? Let me look.” I wait until Suzie adds the hairclips, then walk over to the mirror in the bathroom.

A striking beauty stares back at me, her green-flecked eyes huge and mysterious in her flawless face. And it is flawless. The forehead scar from my crash—almost invisible these days anyway—is completely gone, and my skin is as smooth and poreless as glass. An hour of makeup, and I look like I’m scarcely wearing any—except that every feature appears as perfect as if it had been Photoshopped.

The hair is what gives the princess impression. Piled high on the crown of my head, it’s an artful arrangement of curls and waves, each strand so shiny and smooth I hardly recognize it as my own. Even the color—dark brown with hints of red—is richer and brighter next to the diamond clips, though it could just be the extra glossiness imparted by all those products.

Pam was right about the updo: it’s exactly what this dress needed. The lace gives the sleek mermaid dress an ethereal quality, yet it’s only in combination with the intricate hairstyle that it takes on that magical, fairy-like look that got my mom all teary-eyed.

As I stare at myself in the mirror, my throat constricts.

I’m getting married.

To Peter.

Today.

The wave of panic is as spontaneous as it is irrational. Sucking in a gasping breath, I shut the bathroom door and lean against it, forgetting all about the fragile lace. My heart is like a war drum in my chest, my breath coming in rapid, shallow pants.

I’m getting married. To Peter.

I don’t understand the source of my panic, but that doesn’t make it any less intense. I can feel icy sweat popping out on my forehead and dampening my armpits, and it’s all I can do to remain upright instead of sinking to the floor.

Peter and I are getting married.

“Sara?” Mom knocks on the door, sounding worried. “Are you okay, darling?”

Am I? I should be okay. I should be over the moon, in fact. I’m marrying the man I love, one who’s gone to incredible lengths to show me that he loves me… to make me happy despite our inauspicious start.

Is that the issue? Is some part of me still unable to get past what Peter has done?

The flawless face in the mirror holds no answers, so I take a couple of deep breaths and steady my voice. “I’m fine, Mom. Just got a bit of an upset stomach.”

“Oh, you poor darling. Do you have any Pepto-Bismol in the house?”

“No, but I’m fine. Just give me a second.” I take a few more deep breaths, and when my heart is no longer jackrabbiting in my chest, I wet a towel and rub under my arms. I then reapply anti-perspirant and pat at the top of my hairline with a tissue, taking care not to smear my makeup.