Electric Idol (Dark Olympus #2)(37)
We’re not headed to that house today. Eros guides us south along the river to the lower city warehouse district. It looks nearly identical to the one in the upper city—each block populated with massive warehouses, the streets with very little foot traffic. It’s strange how determined the upper city is to pretend the lower city is actually lower, when really it’s not that much different. At least on the surface.
In reality, the differences run bone deep.
I know my sister loves it down here, but I don’t understand this side of the river. Surely the people here aren’t actually as transparent as Persephone makes it sound? How do they go through life without the defense of a public image in place? It boggles the mind. Then again, I suppose they take their cues from Hades. He’s a very different kind of ruler than any Zeus has ever been.
Eros circles the massive block and parks in front of a warehouse that looks indistinguishable from the rest of the others in the area. I recognize the subtle sign above the door, though. Juliette’s.
He turns to look at me. “Get whatever you need. Spare no expense.”
“Eros—” Maybe he doesn’t realize how expensive Juliette’s custom pieces run, but I’m not mercenary enough to take him up on this offer.
“I mean it.” He shuts off the engine. “Image matters, remember?”
Right. Our image. My image. That’s what he’s worried about. He’s not some besotted man with a black credit card wanting to treat his partner. This is all about the plan. “Of course it matters.” I step out of the car before we can continue the conversation. He’s right; I need to keep my eye on the prize.
The prize being my life.
Juliette’s warehouse might seem like all the others on the outside, but it’s a completely different world inside. Right off the door, there is a stylish sitting room with a variety of chairs and reading material. The rest of the space is divided into two. The front half for racks upon racks of clothing, arranged by style, size, and color. The back is her work space, and only a fool tries to check it out without an invitation.
She must have been watching for us because she appears immediately, striding down the space between two racks as if it were a runway. If she were anyone else, I would think she’s putting on a show, but this is just Juliette. She started her career as a model, and while she may have moved to the fashion side of things, she’s still naturally aware of her surroundings and subconsciously putting forth her best angles.
Not that the woman has a bad angle. She’s a tall Black woman with cheekbones sharp enough to cut and a focused air about her that speaks to how she made it to the top of her field. She meets my gaze and smiles. “Congratulations on your engagement.”
I manage to smile back, and it almost feels natural on my face. “Thank you. And thank you for working with us on such short notice.”
“Of course.” Juliette motions toward the changing rooms tucked against the far wall. “I have a few options picked out that I think would suit.”
If she says they’ll suit, I believe her. The woman is truly a master with fit, fabric, and style. There’s a reason I have a few of her pieces in my suitcase currently, though she’s expensive enough that I try to ration my purchases for special occasions. A wedding is nothing if not special, I suppose. “Thank you,” I say again.
“You.” She turns dark eyes on Eros. “Go sit down or wait outside. I don’t want you wandering about the place and distracting me.” There’s no give in Juliette’s voice. Or on her face, where she’s barely concealing her dislike for Eros. When he obediently walks away, his footsteps echoing in the large space, she turns to me. “It’s not my job to ask questions, but I hope you know what you’re doing.”
I hope I know what I’m doing, too. Confiding in anyone, especially a near stranger, is out of the question, though. Instead, I offer her a bright smile. “I do.”
Juliette gives me a long look and finally nods. “Let’s get to it.”
She sends me into the changing area with six dresses. It takes me ten minutes to eliminate four of them as possibilities. They all fit perfectly, but they just don’t feel right for the image I plan on projecting. Plenty of people spend years dreaming of their wedding, and when I was a little girl, I was no different.
Once we moved into the city, I set those dreams aside. Oh, I always hoped I’d end up married one day, but with every year that passed, the reality of our situation sank in further. The only people I can trust in Olympus are my sisters. Even my mother has her own agenda, and more often than not, she asks for forgiveness instead of permission when she ropes us into her schemes.
A part of me always dreamed of walking down the aisle to my partner, of putting together a small but tasteful wedding of our closest friends and family, one that had nothing to do with the press or social media or the judgment of others. A marriage that I chose, rather than one set up for political gain like my mother wants.
That dream has turned to ash now.
I study the remaining two dresses. One is what I would have chosen for that dream wedding. It’s a fitted white dress in a mermaid style with exquisite lace and beading over the bodice and hips and thighs before flaring out in layers of tulle that create a short train.
The other is a deep merlot color that’s breathtakingly striking. It’s got a structured sweetheart bodice that does impressive things for my breasts. The fabric gathers on my right hip in a burst of silver roses, the flowers appearing to be swept along, with silver petals trailing down the full skirt. Tiny sleeves create an off-the-shoulder look that seems more designed to show off my shoulders and chest than cover anything up. Silver stitching creates a V along the top of the bodice, finishing the look.