“We can do pale blush,” the planner chirps, tapping the spread. “Or ivory. Timeless. Here, Orlo’s side mentioned winter jasmine if the date lands in late February. We could weave it through the archway. See?”
Valentina leans in, ready with a practical nod. Alessia takes a sip of water and studies me over the rim of her glass like I’m a painting with a crack no one else can see.
“Jasmine’s strong,” I say because someone needs to have a word. “Overpowers everything if you’re not careful.”
The planner laughs lightly. “We’ll keep it balanced. There are also peonies. Classic romance. Or camellias, very old world.”
Old world. Control dressed like tradition.
The page gleams. A ribbon swatch sticks to my finger. I peel it off and set it on the table carefully, like it’s alive.
“What do you think of this lace?” Valentina asks, nudging the sample toward me. “Hand-stitched. It’s beautiful.”
“It is.”
“And the silhouette,” the planner continues. “We’re leaning toward a fit-and-flare, yes? Orlo’s mother suggested cathedral-length for the veil.”
Of course she did.
Duchess rolls to her back and stretches until her paws hit the edge of the binder. I scratch the soft curve of her stomach, and she makes a noise that sounds like surrender. My chest tightens for no good reason.
“I think…” I say, eyes on the lace. “I’m tired.”
It lands like a glass set down too gently. The planner’s smile pauses, then rearranges.
“Of course. We’ve done so much this week. We can stop here. I’ll leave the binder. Sleep on it. We’ll revisit tomorrow.”
She packs her swatches with neat hands. Valentina thanks her. Alessia rises to walk her out. Goodbyes are bright and careful. The door clicks; the suite exhales.
It’s just the three of us again. The light outside is soft and gray, New York doing its winter impression of a dimmer switch. I lift Duchess, and she oozes off my lap, affronted, then decides the chair beside me is good enough. Traitor.
“I’m going to lie down,” I say. “Headache.”
Valentina’s eyes crease. “You eaten?”
“Yes.”
“Water?”
I lift the glass and sip. “See?”
Alessia leaves her spot by the door and joins me at the table, fingers drumming once, then still. “Do you want company or real quiet?”
“Quiet.” It comes out smooth. Too smooth. “Please.”
They follow me anyway—down the hall, past the framed family photos someone insists make the place feel like home. Mine are stuck somewhere between storage and denial.
My room is colder than the rest of the apartment. The curtains are open. Buildings square off against the sky like they always win.
I toe off my slippers and sit on the edge of the bed. The duvet is heavy; I don’t get under it. Valentina shuts the door behind us, then opens it again, like she’s not sure if a boundary helps or hurts. Alessia turns the dimmer down a notch and the room softens. I look at the carpet. If I stare long enough, the pattern starts to move.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Really.”
“Okay,” Valentina says. No argument. Just the word. “We can sit then.”
She perches at the foot of the bed, angled toward the door, always ready to pivot. Alessia takes the chair by the window and tucks one foot under herself. Duchess slinks in and does a perimeter check before she decides the chair is still acceptable, leaps onto it, curls, and sighs. Everyone settles like they were assigned seats at my performance and forgot the script.
“We can talk about anything else,” Alessia offers. “Or nothing. I can tell you about the woman who tried to cut the line at the gelato place by pretending to go into labor.”
