I want to saynone of them, but Valentina’s hand finds the small of my back. A gentle push, a reminder that resistance here is a losing game.
So I nod. “Sure.”
The attendant leads me behind a curtain into a fitting area that smells like steamed silk and nerves. I change slowly, the fabric cool against my skin, the lace whispering as it slides over my shoulders. My reflection stares back: pale, tired, wrong.
When I step out, the room goes quiet.
Vera smiles. “It’s divine.”
Valentina’s expression softens. “You look beautiful, Mara.”
Beautiful.The word should mean something. It doesn’t.
I look at myself in the mirror—the fitted bodice, the long train, the delicate embroidery catching the light—and I feel nothing. No spark. No warmth. Just the ache of pretending.
Vera circles me like an appraiser. “It flatters your figure. A touch more tailoring at the waist, perhaps. You see, Valentina? She has the Folonari posture. Very rare. Shoulders set back, chin high. Regal.”
Valentina murmurs something polite. I keep my eyes on my reflection, watching my mouth press into a thin line.
“Do you like it?” Vera asks.
I open my mouth. The wrong answer hovers on my tongue.It’s perfect.
Instead, “I don’t know.”
She frowns, confused. “You don’t know?”
“It’s…fine,” I say, voice too small. “They’re all fine.”
Vera exhales through her nose, that elegant kind of disappointment people with power perfect. “Maybe the next one will speak to you better.”
The attendant helps me change again. And again. Silk. Satin. Organza. Layers upon layers of everything I can’t feel.
Every dress blurs into the next. Every reflection looks the same: a stranger dressed in expectation. By the fifth gown, the room starts to tilt.
Vera’s talking again. Something about tradition, about family honor, about elegance that endures. Valentina tries to steer the conversation toward hemlines and fabric weights, but it’s all background noise.
The lights are too bright. My throat feels tight. I catch sight of myself in the mirror again—pale skin, hollow eyes, white fabric swallowing me whole—and suddenly I can’t breathe.
The attendant asks if I’m all right. I nod. Lie.
Valentina’s watching me now. Her expression shifts, soft concern under composure.
“Maybe we should take a break.”
“I’m fine,” I say, too quickly.
Vera waves a hand. “Nonsense. She’s radiant. The girl is simply overwhelmed by options.”
Overwhelmed.That’s one word for it.
The next dress is heavier. The fabric clings, the corset tighter. My lungs protest. I stare at the mirror, and it feels like the glass itself is shrinking. I tug at the neckline, at the sleeves, at anything to make space for air. My pulse hammers behind my ribs.
Vera says something about the veil. Valentina says my name.
And then the tears come. Not pretty ones. Not cinematic. Just raw and silent and shaking.
I cover my mouth with my hand, but it doesn’t stop the sound that escapes—small, cracked, broken. The room freezes. The attendant steps back. Vera blinks, startled. Valentina moves first.
