A Designer Dress From Heaven and Your Dirty Wedding Ring

xii. it won't cost you much (just a single drop of blood)

this chapter contains warnings for the following: alcohol, emotional and mental manipulation, bruises, mental breakdown, makarov being a creep, self-harm, scars, thoughts of suicide, cheating (technically), blood, guns, possible inaccurate translations

Who knew rock bottom looked like standing before a wall of mirrors in a bespoke wedding gown?

You weren't allowed any input on the design, much like the first time you'd gotten married. If you had, the dress wouldn't look anything like this—a gaudy gem-encrusted garment with a fit more akin to too-tight lingerie than a wedding dress.

It's hard to feel comfortable with so much skin on display; the thought of standing before a crowd of strangers in this barely there slip makes you nauseous. Makarov was pleased, though, having you model the dress during your last interrogation.

He's been careful not to leave lasting marks on you since then.

You take your wins where you can get them now, no matter how small they are.

Kira circles you, inspecting you with her father's blue-green gaze, a vulture watching for its prey to take its last breath. You refuse to give her the satisfaction. She hums and murmurs to herself, occasionally stopping to punch and prod at the fabric. If her nails catch your skin every once in a while, you don't comment on it.

"What do you think?" Kira asks, turning away from you to the couches behind you. Phillip looks up from his phone for the first time in an hour, giving you a generous once-over.

"Is it too long?" Kira ponders. You catch her sly gaze in the mirror and sink your teeth into your tongue until you taste iron.

She does this to you at every fitting.

"Any shorter, and she'll be walking naked down the aisle," Phillip chuckles.

"I doubt my father would mind," Kira smirks, plucking at the hem of your dress with those too-sharp nails.

They've been like this for the past month, bonding over their mutual love of humiliating you.

You snapped at her once when she'd asked if you'd be more useful than your mother and stay alive after having your first child. The slap had been crisp, and you rode the high of that victory for the rest of the day.

She'd gone crying to her father, of course, and you weren't able to get out of bed for two days afterward.

Now, you resolve to stay silent, biting back any words that bubble up on the top of your tongue.

Your bedroom doors open, your soon-to-be husband waltzing in with Shepherd behind him. You keep your eyes forward, feeling the way he leers over you. You know better than to meet his eyes; it'll only encourage him, and you know no one in this room will stop him.

"We're almost done," Kira says, and you tense when her fingers brush across your neck to mess with your hair.

"Take your time," Makarov hums, moving to stand behind Phillip, leaning against the back of the couch. The three men speak quietly to each other while Kira flits around you. She stands in front of you, trying to match your hair pins with your necklace, and you chance a glance over her shoulder. You catch Makarov's reflection immediately, his intense stare aimed solely at you as he speaks to the others.

He smirks, lust-filled and victorious, and you avert your gaze immediately.

Kira clicks her tongue, stepping back from you with her mouth pressed into a small pout. "I think this is the best we're going to get today," she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest and walking over to the group.