Chapter 3 - The Dress and the Dagger
At 6:00 a.m., the bridal suite at the Drake Hotel felt like an execution chamber draped in white lace.
Maeve sat in front of the massive gilt-framed mirror, staring at her reflection. Her mother, Eleanor Callahan, was bustling around the room, nervously smoothing her own navy-blue mother-of-the-bride dress while barking orders at the hair and makeup artists.
"Maeve, darling, you look so pale!" Eleanor fussed, dabbing a powder puff against Maeve's cheek. "You should have rested more. Brandon’s mother called three times this morning—she wants to make sure the photographer captures the cathedral’s stained glass during the vows. Oh, where is Gemma? She was supposed to be here an hour ago with the bouquets!"
"She's probably with Brandon," Maeve said, her voice completely flat, devoid of emotion.
"Well, naturally, she's helping him with his boutonnière," Eleanor chimed, oblivious. "Such a good friend. You're so lucky, Maeve. A handsome young attorney, a beautiful wedding... everything is falling into place."
Falling into a abyss, Maeve thought.
She looked at her wedding dress standing on the dress form in the corner. Ivory silk zibeline, structured boning, a dramatic cathedral-length train featuring hand-embroidered silver threads in an antique Irish lace pattern. She had poured her soul into that gown. She had built it to fit every curve of her size-twenty frame with regal, unapologetic splendor. Brandon had hated the heavy silk when he first saw a sketch. “It’s too much material, Maeve. It makes you look... imposing.”
Good, she thought now, a dark, wicked satisfaction settling into her chest. Today, I am imposing.
The heavy mahogany doors of the suite clicked open.
Gemma Rhodes glided into the room, wearing her blush-pink maid-of-honor dress. She looked delicate, tiny, and radiantly happy. Her blonde hair was styled in soft waves, and her porcelain skin practically glowed.
"Maeve, sweetie!" Gemma squealed, rushing over with a bouquet of white peonies and eucalyptus. "I am so, so sorry I'm late! The traffic on Lake Shore Drive was absolute murder! Oh my gosh, you look... incredible!"
Maeve didn't turn her head. She watched Gemma through the mirror's reflection. She looked at Gemma’s flat, slender stomach—the stomach that was currently gestating Brandon’s child.
"Did you get everything taken care of, Gemma?" Maeve asked quietly.
"Of course! Brandon looks so handsome in his tux," Gemma said, her voice dropping into a theatrical whisper as she leaned over Maeve’s shoulder. "He's a little nervous, of course. Big day! But he can't wait to see you."
He can't wait to see my studio's deed finalized, Maeve thought.
"Thank you, Gemma," Maeve said, turning her head slowly to look her best friend dead in the eye. "You've been... so thorough. Especially with the notarized paperwork."
Gemma’s smile flickered for a fraction of a second, a tiny shadow of discomfort crossing her bright eyes before she smoothed it over. "Oh! Well, you know me. Anything for my best friend."
"Yes," Maeve whispered, her lip curling slightly. "Anything."
At 8:15 a.m., two large black SUVs pulled up to the side entrance of the hotel.
Maeve stood fully dressed in her gown. The weight of the heavy silk felt like armor. The corsetry held her posture straight, her shoulders back, her chest high. She refused to wear the delicate diamond necklace Brandon had bought her for her birthday—the cheap, silver-plated chain that turned her skin red. Instead, she wore her grandmother's antique gold choker, heavy and regal against her collarbones.
As her mother left the room to gather her coat, Maeve’s phone buzzed on the vanity.
A text from an unknown number.
The front rows are filled. Brandon is at the altar. The trap is set. Walk steady, little bird.
Maeve deleted the text, slipped her phone into a hidden pocket hand-stitched into the voluminous folds of her silk skirt, and picked up her bouquet.
"Ready, darling?" Eleanor asked, returning to the room, her eyes shining with sentimental tears.
May you like
Maeve looked at her reflection one last time. The girl who had laughed at Brandon’s passive-aggressive insults was gone. The girl who had allowed herself to feel small, clumsy, and lucky to be tolerated was dead.
"I am completely ready," Maeve said.
