(JULIANNE'S POV)
The silk of my wedding gown felt like a shroud.
I stood in the center of the Vane ancestral ballroom, surrounded by three seamstresses who were currently pinning a ten-foot train of antique French lace to my waist. Outside, the New York rain lashed against the windows, a grey, miserable backdrop to what was supposed to be my crowning moment.
"Tighter," I commanded, my voice cold and sharp.
"But, Miss Vane, you won't be able to breathe—"
"I didn't ask for a medical opinion," I snapped, looking at my reflection in the triptych of gold-leafed mirrors. "I asked for the silhouette of a Queen. Tighter."
As they pulled the stays, I felt the familiar, crushing pressure. It was a sensation I was used to. My father had been tightening the stays of my life since the day I was born. Vanes don't lose, Julianne. Vanes occupy.
But as I stared at my reflection, I didn't see a conqueror. I saw a woman who was losing her grip on the only man who mattered.
