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“They’ll all be the same predictable gowns. I have to pick one.”
“Well, you’re not picking that one.”
The stylist looks toward the door. “Perhaps I should call Mr. Harrington’s office.”
“Perhaps you should bring the bride something she actually wants to wear and save yourself the trouble.”
“I’m afraid the account instructions are very specific.”
“Then the account can marry the dress.”
“Sera.”
I look at Eilish in the mirror. “What?”
She just stands there, swallowed in material, her face paler than usual beneath the soft salon lights. “I can’t fight against everything. It’s exhausting.”
My anger folds in on itself.
I get up and cross to her, lowering my voice because I need to calm down. This isn’t just about the dress. It’s about her father thinking an arranged marriage is acceptable—and that her duty is to fall in line.
“You’re right. Pick your battles. But the dress you wear has to be your decision. Or they’ll walk all over ya. And that’s not who you are. You’re tougher than that.”
Her eyes shine behind a layer of unshed tears. I hate seeing that more than the ugly dress.
“I asked my mother if the wedding could wait a year,” she whispers. “It feels so rushed.
Her expression hardens, and she dabs the corner of her eye with the heel of her hand.
“She just laughed,” she continues. “And repeated the story about her and my father. How they were forced together. How she didn't like him at first. But they had me…and I’m expected to fuck Fionn and get pregnant, too.”
My stomach drops and a wave of nausea or fear or jealousy catches me off guard.
“Do ya fancy him?” I whisper.
“He’s going to be my husband,” she says. “So, what does it matter?”
I don’t know what to say, and I don’t know what I’m feeling either.
“And last night you said you won't go back into Harrington territory. That’s where I’m getting married, Sera. Where I have to live.”
I don’t have an answer for her. That’s the problem with loyalty. It’s easy to say the word until sacrifices are involved.
Eilish looks at me in the mirror. “Who will I have in my corner then?”
My chest tightens.
Before I can lie, the salon door swings open, and I see him in the mirror first.
Fionn moves inside wearing a dark overcoat, open at the front, parted a little so his suit peeks out. His expression is calm and eyes laser focused.
The stylist steps away from Eilish at once. “Mr. Harrington.”
His gaze goes to Eilish.
For some reason, that irritates me, though I hide it by folding my arms across my chest and glaring at him. He takes in the dress, her flushed cheeks, glassy eyes, and the rail of dresses.
“What’s the problem?” he asks.
