When the doors of the suite swung open, it wasn't a white gown that greeted Charlène. It was blood. Or at least, it looked like it. Laid out across the bed was a masterpiece of red embroidery and ruby.
In the De Rossi lineage, white was for the weak. Red was the color of the throne they sat upon, and the blood they spilled to keep it.
Charlène stood before the mirror, a shell of the woman who once
Her expression was moody, as the makeup artists worked with trembling hands. Even they knew the truth. As they cinched the red corset, she caught their reflections in the glass—eyes filled with pity.
"I want to see my brother," Charlène commanded, her voice cutting through the hushed whispers of the room.
The head maid paled, bowing her head. "Lady Charlène, the Signore's orders were strict. The ceremony begins within the hour—"
