The dress Adrian had chosen for me was a masterpiece of mourning. It was a high-necked, floor-length gown made of black vintage lace, so tight it felt like a second skin, and so intricate it looked like a spider’s web. Over my face hung a veil of dark tulle, obscuring my features just enough to make me a mystery, but not enough to hide the silver glint of the choker that still held my throat captive.
"Stand still," Adrian commanded.
He was standing behind me, adjusting the heavy diamond brooch on my shoulder. His touch was clinical, yet his eyes lingered on the marks he had left on my neck the night before—purple bruises that peeked out from behind the lace like hidden sins.
"The world thinks I am a grieving son," he whispered, his hands moving to my waist, pulling me flush against his
