Sweet Hatred-Chapter 225: Preparing

And the fluttering chaos in my chest didn’t calm at all.

Ashlyn and I walked to the room, the same as yesterday where I got fitted for my dress, the same place that could’ve passed for the dressing quarters of a royal court.

Tall antique mirrors lined the marbled walls, soft golden lighting danced on the edges of white velvet chairs, and staff moved with graceful precision around racks of dresses and trays of gemstones and brushes like this was routine. Like transforming women into goddesses was just another Tuesday.

And waiting like a deity among mortals was the French designer from the night before, the one who’d gasped dramatically when he first saw me.

"Ahhh, la déesse de guerre returns," he cooed, clasping his hands together as he floated toward me. "And my fiery duchess," he added, turning to Ashlyn with a kiss to the air near both her cheeks.

"Don’t encourage her," Ash said dryly, already stepping toward the vanity station where a staff member awaited with a palette of warm shades that matched her undertone exactly.

I expected to be sent to a separate corner, but no, they sat us side by side.

My hair was gently taken up, brushed back, and threaded with something that shimmered. Not too much. Just enough. My skin was already cleansed by the steam and spa prep we’d done earlier, so now their fingers worked like artists, bringing out the sharpness of my eyes and the softness of my lips. My lashes were darkened, lengthened, my cheeks glazed with warmth, and my brows given the tiniest lift. My lips painted in a deep muted rose.

Then came the dress.

I thought they’d bring me the red one. I’d prepared myself to own it, to wear it like a shield, like defiance.

But instead, they brought me velvet.

Emerald velvet.

The gown flowed like liquid moss, dipped back, caressing my spine, with a train that swept along the floor like a jealous secret. As they zipped me in, tugged and pinned and smoothed everything into place, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

And froze.

Who was that?

She looked powerful. Bare. Sharp.

And just a little bit heartbroken.

"You thought I’d give you the red?" Ash asked suddenly, sliding into her own dress like it was sewn from hell itself, black silk with silver embellishments that hugged every inch of her. Her ginger hair was swept back, a few waves falling loose like they’d been touched by God Himself.

I turned toward her, slightly speechless.

Ash smirked. "Please. If I put you in red, no man in that room would see me. Emerald calms the eyes. Red incites violence."

She sipped her champagne like she hadn’t just roasted me.

"And I still have a reputation to uphold and a fiancé too." She smirked.

I said nothing. I couldn’t.

Still, when we turned to each other fully, makeup done, heels on, our masks still waiting,

Ashlyn was stunning.

No. She was dangerous. Something carved for war. And in the mirror, I looked like the storm just before it.

Ash glanced at me, and her smirk deepened.

"You know," she said, adjusting one earring, "your face is the kind of beauty kings go to war for."

I blinked.

"What?"

She tilted her head. "It’s not a compliment. It’s a warning."

I let out a choked laugh and rolled my eyes, trying to smother the heat crawling up my neck. "Right. Because your face screams international peacekeeping."

"And yours screams heartbreak with a side of homicide," she shot back, reaching for her heels. "Remember we’re still rivals." She continued with a dangerously sweet smile.

I shook my head, slipping into mine, a strappy gold set that elevated me just enough to stop feeling small. "You’re unhinged."

"You like it."

I couldn’t even deny it.

We were laughing when the door opened.

And then,

"Hope I’m not late to the pre-show," a voice cut in, low, teasing, cocky as hell.

I didn’t recognize it immediately. But when I turned, it felt even more familiar, like I’d heard somewhere before.

White hair.

Blue eyes like a winter sky.

Tall, unfairly good-looking probably, the kind of build that suggested he’d been born with privilege and danger. And on his face? A gold mask, just like ours.

The suit was familiar. Crisp. Tailored to him like second skin. It was the suit. The one from last night. The one that’d been floating around like a mystery.

"You bastard," Ash growled beside me.

I looked between the man and her. "Is that, ?"

"SYLAS!" she shrieked.

The next thing I knew, she was charging at him, her heels somehow not slowing her down one bit as she swung a hand at him with no hesitation.

"You ungrateful white-haired bastard, "

Sylas laughed, catching her hand mid-air like he’d been through this before. "There she is. Still violent. You missed me."

"I told you to arrive yesterday, you useless show pony, "

"You missed me."

"I missed punching your stupid face!"

"Same thing."

I stood there, utterly stunned, lips parted, watching this rich, deadly royal sibling rivalry unfold like a soap opera.

"Oh my God," I whispered. "He’s real."

And Ash, snarling as she pushed him again, just shouted over her shoulder like she was introducing me to a demon she’d accidentally raised in boarding school.

"Welcome to hell, Aria. That’s my brother."

I blinked.

And then he turned to me.

Not in a casual oh-who’s-this kind of glance, but a slow, slicing turn of his head like he’d known I was standing there the entire time and was just now giving me the honor of his full attention.

His eyes, icy and deep like they’d never once reflected warmth, dragged over my frame in a way that should’ve made me slap him, but didn’t. It wasn’t sleazy. It was intentional. Like he was studying a weapon he’d once held and wondered what damage it could do now.

And then, like the flip of a switch, that cruelly sculpted face melted into a grin.

A very familiar grin.

"Oh...no fucking way" he drawled, tilting his head slightly. "It’s you. Sad girl."

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