She nods slowly, the way you nod at someone you suspect might be about to do something alarming.
Fair enough.
I spot Abigail near the back, being ushered toward a dressing room by another attendant. They’re discussing veils. Lace versus tulle. The attendant is holding up samples while Abigail tilts her head, considering.
This is my chance.
Probably my only chance.
I wait until the attendant steps away to fetch more options. Then I move, trying to look casual, like I’m just a normal bridebrowsing normal bridal things and not at all about to corner a stranger in a fitting room.
The dressing room door is slightly ajar. I slip inside, catch my heel on the threshold, lurch forward, grab a curtain for balance, and end up face to face with the woman who was supposed to marry Devyn Chaleur.
While tangled in a curtain.
Fantastic. Really nailing this whole “competent heroine” thing.
She stares at me.
I stare at her.
Her eyes—blue-gray, the color of an overcast sky—go wide with shock.
“EXCUSE ME?!”
“I know this is creepy,” I say quickly, trying to untangle myself from the curtain without making things worse. I’m making things worse. “I know how this looks—”
“If you don’t leave this instant, I’m going to call for help!”
“Please don’t—I’m so sorry—” The curtain finally releases me and I stumble back, nearly knocking over a decorative stool. “I just need to talk to you—”
“Do you have any idea who I am?” Her voice is shaking, but there’s steel underneath it. “Who I’m engaged to?”
My stomach drops.
Who she’s engaged to.
Devyn.
Right. Of course. In this timeline, they never married. He never carried me through a chapel. Never looked at my mouth and then back up like he couldn’t help himself. Never whispered French vows against my skin while the world dissolved into warmth and wonder and—
Stop it, Bailey.Stop.
“I know this is going to sound unbelievable,” I say, and I’m grateful my voice comes out mostly steady. “But I’m from the other world—”
Abigail stops.
Her mouth, which had been opening to scream for help, closes.
She looks at me. Really looks, for the first time—not at the crazy bride who just invaded her dressing room, but atme.
“I’m not crazy,” I add quickly. “I swear I’m not. I know how this sounds but—”
“So am I.”
I blink.
“I...what?”
