My mom keeps smoothing the skirts with that practiced Carrington elegance, saying things like“You’ll appreciate something timeless in the photos”—as ifI’m the kind of woman who’s never cared about timeless.
Vanessa, Donovan’s stepmom, is perched on the edge of the settee like she’s hosting a tea party, gently sipping from her tiny bottle of cucumber water and making polite, boring comments like,“This neckline is very tasteful.”
And then there’s Ansel. Sitting cross-legged on the fitting room floor, sipping iced coffee, and silently begging me to burn everything I’ve tried on so far.
“I swear,” I mutter as I step out of another tulle nightmare, “if the next one has lace appliqués shaped like hearts, I’m calling Papa and getting a quote on a casket instead.”
Ansel snorts. “Bold of you to assume you haven’t already reserved a spot.”
And then I see it. Tucked at the very end of a rack. No one pulled it. No one recommended it. But it’s just…there. Waiting.
It’s not white. It’s ivory, with the faintest blush undertone. Barely noticeable—just enough to feel like a secret. The fabric is silk crepe, smooth, liquid, and weighty, suggesting it’s bothexpensive and dangerous.
The bodice is structured—not princessy, but sharp. Corseted. A deep plunge balanced by illusion mesh and a constellation of tiny hand-sewn pearls. The off-the-shoulder sleeves drape in sheer tulle, soft and effortless, like a sigh against my skin.
And the skirt—gods. It hugs just enough, then spills out into a fit-and-flare with a slit up the left leg that says,I am not here to behave.
I step out, slowly.
The room goes quiet.
Ansel actually drops her coffee.
My mom presses a hand to her chest like she’s physically stunned. “Oh, Stella…”
Vanessa smiles softly, for once not saying a thing and just nodding.
I turn to face the mirror.
It doesn’t feel like a wedding dress. Not really.
It feels like a warning.
Like a promise dressed in silk.
It’s not made for a princess.
It’s made for a woman who walks into love with her crown already on.
I run my hands down the sides, feeling the strength in the structure and the softness in the sleeves. The duality isso me, it almost hurts.
No tiara. No drama.
Just me, the ocean wind, and this dress—one day, I’ll look back and remember this as the moment I believed in forever.
My wedding is next week. I’m marrying the love of my life. I’m checking off last-minute errands like it’ll keep me sane.
Ansel and I head to Velvet Nails to meet Blythe for mani-pedis—yes, Blythe’s a nail tech, but even surgeons hand off the scalpel sometimes.
She greets us with her usual warm hug, practically bouncing with excitement over the wedding invite.
Ansel and I are buzzing too, thrilled that she and Sinclair will be there. I reach out to squeeze her hand—and she pulls away, fast, like it hurts.
“Blythe, are you okay?” I ask.
She glances at the floor. “Yeah. I just tweaked my wrist during yoga last night,” she says, smiling.
I let it go, but something tugs at me. A whisper of doubt. She’d tell me… wouldn’t she?
