All The Pretty Little Lies (Second Sons Duet #1)

7. Vesper

VESPER

I stand on the pedestal in my mother’s expansive closet, surrounded by mirrors that reflect my discontent from every angle. The white gown clings to my body like a straitjacket, its intricate lace and beading a poor disguise for the prison it represents. My mother circles me like a vulture, her critical gaze dissecting every curve and line of my figure.

"The waist needs to be taken in further," she instructs the harried dressmaker, who nods obediently, pins clenched between her teeth. "And see if you can add some padding to the bust. We can't have her looking like a boy on her wedding day."

I bite my tongue, tasting the metallic hint of blood as I force back the retort that threatens to escape. Two days have passed since my father’s decision to remove me from school, and I feel as if I'm sinking further into some surreal nightmare. The groom, the dress, the venue, the guest list - all of it decided without my input or consent. I am merely a puppet, strings pulled taut by the expectations of two powerful families.

The dressmaker's hands flutter around me, adjusting and pinning, as my mother continues her litany of critiques. "Perhaps we should consider a corset. Vesper, darling, you really should have watched your diet more closely these past months. What will the Petrovs think?"

I meet my own gaze in the mirror, green eyes blazing with a defiance I dare not voice. The reflection staring back at me is a stranger - a porcelain doll version of myself, stripped of agency and dressed up for display. The delicate veil cascades down my back, its gossamer threads a mockery of the web I'm entangled in.

As the fitting drags on, I let my mind wander, searching for any possible escape from this gilded cage. But the Rossi name is both my legacy and my burden, and I know that the tentacles of family obligation reach far and wide. Even as I stand here, being molded into someone else's vision of a perfect bride, I can feel the walls closing in.

The dressmaker steps back, admiring her handiwork with a satisfied smile. "There, Mrs. Rossi. I think we've achieved the perfect silhouette."

My mother claps her hands together, her eyes gleaming with triumph. "Oh, it's magnificent! Vesper, you'll be the most stunning bride the families have ever seen."

I force my lips into a semblance of a smile, the effort making my cheeks ache. "Thank you, Mother," I manage, the lie leaves a sour aftertaste in my mouth. As I step down from the pedestal, my legs wobble beneath the weight of the gown. The layers of tulle and satin swirl around my ankles, creating a treacherous landscape of fabric. I try to take a careful step forward, but my foot catches on the hem, and I lurch forward, arms flailing wildly as I struggle to maintain my balance.

"Vesper!" My mother's shrill voice cuts through the air like a whip. "For heaven's sake, child! Where is your grace? Your poise?"

I manage to right myself, cheeks burning with embarrassment and frustration. The dressmaker hovers nearby, her hands twitching as if she wants to reach out and steady me but doesn't quite dare.

"I'm sorry, Mother," I mutter, smoothing down the front of the dress. “There's so much fabric."

My mother's lips purse into a thin line of disapproval. "A true lady knows how to move in any attire with elegance and dignity. Perhaps we should have enrolled you in more etiquette classes instead of indulging your academic pursuits."

The barb stings, but I swallow my retort. Instead, I try to steer the conversation in a different direction. "Mother, about the wedding. I was wondering if we could discuss some of the details. The guest list, perhaps, or the menu?"

Her eyebrows arch so high they nearly disappear into her hairline. "Oh, Vesper," she says, her tone dripping with condescension. "You're far too young to concern yourself with such matters. Leave the planning to those who know what is proper and befitting of our station."

Too young to plan my own wedding, I think bitterly, but old enough to be married off like a prized mare. The irony is not lost on me, but it seems to have sailed right over my parents' heads.

“But, it’s my wedding,” I fire back. The insubordination slips from my mouth before I can stop it. “Father has chosen my intended groom. You’re choosing everything else. Where is my choice in all of this?” My hands tug at the gown on my body. The delicate lace twisting around me like a vice, squeezing me from the outside in. “Can I have at least one choice before Father sells me off?”

"Now," my mother continues, gesturing imperiously to the dressmaker, "let's get you out of this gown before you manage to tear it. Honestly, Vesper, you must learn to be more careful."

“I hate this dress,” I spit back.

My mother's eyes flash with anger, but she quickly plasters on a saccharine smile for the dressmaker's benefit. "Vesper, darling, you're just overwhelmed. This is all so exciting, isn't it?"

The rage building inside me threatens to burst forth like a volcano. I can feel my cheeks burning, my fists clenching at my sides. The lace of the dress suddenly feels like it's suffocating me, each intricate pattern a reminder of the cage they're forcing me into.

"Exciting?" I seethe, my voice low and dangerous. "You think being stripped of every choice and every decision about my own life is exciting?"

The dressmaker's eyes widen, darting between my mother and me. She takes a hesitant step back, clearly sensing the tension in the air.

My mother's smile becomes strained, her eyes silently pleading with me to stop. But I can't. The dam has broken, and years of pent-up frustration come flooding out.

"I don't want this dress. I don't want this wedding. I don't want to be married to Dmitri fucking Petrov!" My voice rises with each word, echoing off the dressing room’s mirrored walls.

"Vesper!" My mother hisses, her composure slipping. "That's quite enough!"

But I'm beyond caring. I reach behind me, fumbling for the zipper of the dress. "I'm done being your perfect, obedient daughter. I'm done pretending this is what I want!"

With a satisfying rip, I tear the delicate lace sleeve, the sound like music to my ears. My mother gasps in horror, while the dressmaker lets out a strangled cry. I rip, and twist until the dress falls free from my body in a pool at my feet. The silk slip underneath feels like a rush of freedom.

"Miss Rossi, please!" The dressmaker pleads, her hands outstretched as if to stop me. "That gown is worth?—"

"I don't care what it's worth!" I shout, yanking at the bodice. Another rip, and I feel a surge of twisted satisfaction. "It's not worth my freedom!"

My mother lunges forward, grabbing my wrists. "Stop this at once!" She turns to the shell-shocked dressmaker, her voice sickly sweet. "I'm so sorry, she's just nervous about the big day. Wedding jitters, you know how it is."

I wrench my hands free, stumbling backward. "Don't touch me! And stop lying! This isn't about wedding jitters. This is about you and Father treating me like a pawn in your sick games!"

Tears of frustration sting my eyes, but I blink them back furiously. I won't give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

"I want one choice," I say, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Just one. Is that really too much to ask?"

My mother's eyes narrow, a storm brewing behind her carefully composed features. She grabs my arm with surprising strength, her manicured nails digging into my skin as she drags me away from the bewildered dressmaker and into the main portion of her private bedroom.

The air around us feels thick with tension, the scent of expensive perfume and freshly steamed fabric suddenly cloying. Crystal chandeliers tinkle softly overhead, their delicate light catching on the sequins of nearby gowns only heightens my sense of disorientation.

"Vesper Alessandra Rossi," my mother hisses, her voice low and venomous. "You will cease this childish tantrum immediately. Your little act of rebellion won't change a thing. Your father set this in motion, and nothing you do or say will stop it."

I open my mouth to protest, but she cuts me off with a sharp gesture. "It's high time you grew up and faced reality. The world isn't some fairy tale where you get to choose your own path. There are obligations, alliances to be made and maintained. Your silly dreams of independence and choice? Those are luxuries we can't afford. You were born to marry a connected, wealthy man, and that’s what you’ll do. This is your duty to this family."

Her words cut deep, each syllable another nail in the coffin of my hopes. But the fire inside me refuses to be extinguished. "And what about my happiness?" I challenge, my voice quivering with emotion. "Does that mean nothing to you and Father?”

My mother's face contorts with a mixture of frustration and something that might be pity. "Happiness is a fleeting thing. Power, security, those are what truly matter."

"But at what cost?" I argue back, my voice rising despite my efforts to keep it down. "My freedom? My future? My very self? You may have allowed your father to force you to marry Father, and give up everything you had, but to put your own daughter through the same thing? You’re just as much of a monster as he is."

The slap comes out of nowhere, the crack of palm against cheek echoing in the small space. My head snaps to the side, the sting of the blow bringing tears to my eyes. I raise a trembling hand to my face, feeling the heat rising beneath my fingertips.

Shock ripples through me, followed quickly by a wave of humiliation as I realize the dressmaker has witnessed this entire exchange. The poor woman stands frozen, her mouth agape, pins still clutched uselessly in her hand.

My mother's voice is ice cold when she speaks again. "Go to your room, Vesper. We'll discuss your behavior when your father returns home."

I stand there for a moment, my cheek throbbing, torn between the urge to fight back and the crushing weight of defeat. In the end, it's the pity in the dressmaker's eyes that breaks me. Without another word, I turn and flee, leaving behind a trail of torn lace behind me.

I rush up the stairs, storming into my room, and slamming the door behind me. The moment the door clicks shut, I let out a shuddering breath, burying my face in my hands. Tears threaten to spill, but I furiously blink them back. Crying won't change anything. I need a plan. I need my brother.

I move until I reach my bedside table, where my phone lies untouched since I was dragged out of my bed at an ungodly hour for the fitting. My fingers tremble as I type out a message to Luca, praying that this time he’ll answer me.

Where are you? I need you.

The seconds tick by, each one feeling like an eternity. Then, miraculously, three dots appear on the screen. My heart leaps into my throat as I wait for his response.

It’s safer if you don’t know, Ves. One of the guards smuggled in a phone for me.

I frown, worry gnawing at my insides. What does he mean, it's not safe? Before I can ask, another message pops up.

How are you holding up?

Just had the final fitting. Mother thinks I need more padding in the bust and a smaller waist. Pretty sure she'd prefer it if I could just morph into a living doll. I might have lost my shit on her…she slapped me.

I wait for his reply, hoping for a hint of the sardonic humor we've always shared. Instead, his next message sends a chill down my spine.

Ves, I'm sorry. I can't stop what's coming. Father knows what I was trying to do.

How?

I don’t know, but he knows. If he catches you talking to me, we’re both dead. Delete these messages. Don't try to contact me again. I'm so sorry.

Tears blur my vision as I read his words over and over. The phone suddenly feels heavy in my hands, as if the weight of my brother's cryptic warnings has made it unbearably dense.

I want to scream, to demand answers, to beg him not to leave me alone. But I know better. If Luca says it's not safe, then it's not safe. He's always been the cautious one, the strategist. If he's telling me to stop communicating, it must be for a good reason.

With shaking hands, I delete our conversation, erasing all evidence of this brief exchange. As I set the phone aside, I catch sight of myself in the mirror once more. The girl staring back at me looks lost, afraid, but there's something else in her eyes now - a spark of determination.

Luca may not be able to help me, but his warning has made one thing clear: I'm on my own now. If I want to escape this fate, I'll have to find a way out myself. A knock startles me from my thoughts, and I shove my phone into the table drawer.

"Miss Vesper?" Sophia's gentle voice calls out. "Your mother asked me to bring you some tea."

I smooth down my slip and take a deep breath, schooling my features into a mask of calm. "Come in, Sophia."

As she enters with the tea tray, I force a smile onto my face. I mask indifference, but behind the facade my mind is racing. I have four days to figure this out. Sophia sets the tray down and disappears as quickly as she arrived, shutting the door behind her.

I sip the chamomile tea, its warmth spreading through my body, a stark contrast to the cold dread that has settled in my stomach. The delicate floral aroma wafts up, usually soothing, but now it seems cloying, almost oppressive. I watch the steam curl up from the porcelain cup, mesmerized by its dance in the soft light filtering through the curtains.

As I drain the last drops, a sudden wave of exhaustion washes over me. My limbs feel heavy, my eyelids drooping against my will. I struggle to focus on the intricate pattern of the wallpaper, the lines blurring and swirling before my eyes. This isn't right, I think hazily. I've never reacted to chamomile like this before.

I try to stand, but my legs wobble beneath me like a newborn fawn's. The room tilts and spins, and I barely manage to stumble to my bed before collapsing onto it. The silk sheets feel cool against my flushed skin, and I find myself sinking into their embrace. As my consciousness begins to slip away, a niggling thought persists something was in that tea.

I'm not sure how long I've been asleep when a soft buzzing rouses me. My head feels stuffed with cotton, my thoughts sluggish and disjointed. I fumble for my phone, squinting at the bright screen in the dimness of my room. An unknown number flashes across the display, followed by a cryptic message:

Have you considered the offer?

My heart rate quickens, cutting through the fog of grogginess. I know instantly who it is: Oscar. I hesitate for a moment, my fingers hovering over the keypad. Throwing caution to the wind, I type back:

We need to talk. In person. It's safer.

The response comes almost at once:

Open the door. I'm on the balcony.

My pulse races as I struggle to my feet. I stumble to the French doors leading to the balcony, my hand trembling as I reach for the latch. Taking a deep breath, I pull back the curtain and peer into the darkness beyond.

As I pull open the door, the cool night air rushes in, bringing with it the scent of jasmine from the garden below. My vision swims, and I blink hard, trying to focus on the two shadowy figures standing before me. Oscar's tall frame is easily recognizable, but as my eyes adjust to the darkness, I realize with a jolt that he's not alone. Zaire stands beside him, his broad shoulders tense, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

"What the hell?" I hiss, my words slurring slightly. The room sways around me, and I grip the doorframe to steady myself. "Zaire, what are you doing here?"

Zaire takes a step forward, concern etched across his face. "You don't look well."

"I'm fine," I snap, even as I struggle to keep my balance.

A wave of nausea washes over me, and I sway dangerously. Zaire reaches out to steady me, but I flinch away from his touch. "Don't," I warn, my voice low and dangerous despite its unsteadiness.

"Vesper, please," Zaire pleads, his eyes wide with concern. "We can explain everything, but first, let us help you."

The world tilts again, and this time I can't stop myself from stumbling. Zaire catches me before I hit the ground, his strong arms wrapping around me. I want to push him away, to maintain my anger and suspicion, but my body betrays me, sagging against his chest.

“I think they’ve drugged her,” Zaire comments as he holds me up.

"Drugged?" I mumble, my thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm.

“Did you eat or drink anything?”

"The tea…,” I point the empty cup on my nightstand. “My mother sent it.”

Oscar curses under his breath in Russian, but I have no idea what he said. He and Oscar go back and forth, talking as if I am not in the room. I try to focus on their words, but they seem to be coming from far away. Zaire's voice rumbles through his chest as he speaks, and despite my anger, I find the sound oddly comforting.

"What are you saying?" I ask, my words still slurring slightly as I struggle to focus on Oscar's face. The world around me seems to pulse and sway, the edges of my vision blurring like watercolors left out in the rain.

Oscar runs a hand through his hair, his usually composed demeanor cracking under the weight of urgency. "It's my uncle," he says, his voice low and tense. "He's changing the plan. There won't be a wedding here in the States, Vesper."

A chill runs down my spine, cutting through the fog of whatever drug is coursing through my system. "What are you talking about?" I demand, trying to push away from Zaire's steadying grip. My legs wobble beneath me like a newborn colt's, and I reluctantly allow him to keep his arm around my waist.

Oscar's eyes meet mine, and the anger in them makes my heart stutter. "He's planning to force your father to send you to Russia tomorrow," he says. "He's threatening to cut the alliance.”

The words hit me like a physical blow, and I sway dangerously. Zaire's arm tightens around me, and I can feel the tension radiating from his body. The night air suddenly feels too thin, and I struggle to draw a full breath.

"But...but the wedding," I stammer, my mind reeling.

Oscar shakes his head, his expression grim. "It was all a smokescreen, Vesper. A way to keep you complacent while they finalized the real plan. Our Uncle has far bigger plans than what a political marriage can give him."

I close my eyes, trying to process this information through the haze of drugs and disbelief. The scent of jasmine from the garden below wafts up, a mockery of sweetness in this moment of bitter revelation. When I open my eyes again, the world seems sharper, my senses heightened by the surge of adrenaline coursing through me.

“This doesn’t make sense. Why would they do this?”

“They’re blaming it on your brother, but it’s much more than that.”

"My brother?" I say, my voice stronger now.

Zaire and Oscar exchange a look that sends a fresh wave of fear through me. It's Zaire who answers, his voice gentle but laced with tension. "We think he tried to intervene.”

The pieces start to fall into place - Luca's cryptic messages, his warning not to contact him again. My brother, always the protector, tried to save me and paid the price. Tears prick at my eyes, but I blink them back furiously. There's no time for weakness now.

"Luca, he texted me. He told me our father found out he was trying to stop the wedding,” I admit.

Oscar's eyes widen. "When? What exactly did he say?"

I shake my head, trying to recall the details through the lingering fog. "Just a few hours ago. He said it wasn't safe, that he couldn't stop what was coming. He told me to delete the messages and to not contact him again."

Zaire curses under his breath. "That confirms it. They must have caught him trying to interfere."

"We need to move," Oscar says, his voice tight with urgency. "Vesper, I know this is a lot to take in, but we don't have much time. We have a plan to get you out, but we have to act now."

I look between them, my mind racing. All I have ever wanted is to make my own choices. Maybe it’s time I do. A cold resolve settles over me, cutting through the last of the drug's haze. "What do I need to do?"

"Tomorrow, my uncle will force your father's hand. Someone from our family will arrive to collect you to take you to Russia." Oscar's words hang in the air, heavy and ominous.

I feel as if I've been plunged into icy water, my breath catching in my throat. The world around me seems to blur and fade, the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant chirp of crickets muffled by the roaring in my ears. I stare at Oscar, searching his face for any sign that this is some cruel joke, but his expression remains grave.

Oscar cuts in, his voice tight with urgency. “You have to go with them.”

"To Russia? Are you insane?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Zaire's arm tightens around me, a gesture meant to be reassuring, but it only serves to heighten my nerves. The balcony suddenly feels too small, the night air suddenly becoming too thick.

"I know it sounds crazy," Oscar says, his voice low and urgent. "But it's the only way. If you resist, they'll use force. They'll drug you again, maybe worse this time. But if you go willingly, we can control the situation."

I shake my head vehemently, ignoring the way it makes the world spin. "Control the situation? How? By shipping me off to some frozen wasteland where I'll be at the mercy of your psychotic uncle?"

"Vesper, please," Zaire interjects, his dark eyes pleading. "We have people in place. Your father needs to see you leave, but you will not make it to the plane. I promise you. You will never step foot in Moscow. But we need you to play along, just for a little while."

I push away from Zaire, stumbling slightly as I put distance between us. The cool stone of the balustrade presses against my back, grounding me. "And what about Luca? You expect me to leave while my brother is missing?"

Oscar steps forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "We're not asking you to abandon him. Our people are looking for Luca as we speak. But right now, you're the one in immediate danger."

I laugh, a bitter, hollow sound that seems to echo in the still night air. "Immediate danger? I'm standing here in my own home, surrounded by guards who've known me since I was a child. How is that more dangerous than being shipped off to Russia?"

"Because those guards, this home, they're not what you think they are," Oscar says, his voice tight with building frustration. “The moment that plane touches down in Moscow, you'll be married to Dmitri. No ceremony, no guests, just a piece of paper and a signature. And once that happens, you'll be trapped. Everything up until this moment has been orchestrated by our uncle to get you to Russia, and in order to use you as a bargaining chip against your father.”

I close my eyes, trying to process this flood of information. When I open them again, I fix Oscar with a steely gaze. "You said you have a plan. Do you promise me it will work? That if I say yes that I’m not trading one jailer for another?"

“Yes,” Oscar declares. “It will work. You just have to trust us and let it all play out.”

I hesitate, but if they’re right, and I wake up tomorrow to a sudden change in plans, I have no choice but to trust them. As much as I don’t want to believe this will happen, it’s hard to deny the certainty of their words. It leaves me with no choice

“Tell me what I need to do.”