1
AVERY
Pearls cascade down myarms like rain frozen mid-fall.
I stand on the fitting platform, afraid to breathe too deeply and risk breaking whatever spell has transformed me into the bride in the three-way mirror. The sleeves are sheer illusion fabric, fine tulle fitted to my arms, and against that gossamer layer, hundreds of tiny pearls trail toward my wrists.
The pearls were my idea, a private wink to my husband on our wedding day. I can’t look at the gems without smiling, remembering how Nick once bound my wrists with a long strand of pearls before making me come so hard I was feeling him for days afterward.
And now, in three and a half weeks’ time, I’ll become his wife.
"Hold still, please, Avery." Yuki, one of the team of seamstresses at House of Delaire in Manhattan, adjusts a pin at my waist. "Almost finished."
The gown is breathtaking. A structured, sweetheart-neckline satin bodice wraps my torso, the asymmetrical pleating creating clean diagonal lines across my bust, sculptural and precise. Below my natural waist, the full skirt cascades in lustrous satin,lace appliqués trailing down the fabric in delicate botanical patterns of florals and leaves.
Not for the first time, I marvel at the stunning ivory silk confection Serena Delaire created for me. It’s no wonder she’s the hottest young new designer in the city. Her work is nothing short of magical.
"Oh, Ave." Tasha's voice catches from the large fitting area’s cream settee where she sits with a champagne flute, her warm brown eyes glistening. "You're going to make me cry. Hell, who cares about me? You’re going to makeNickcry when he sees you in that dress."
I laugh carefully, trying not to disrupt Yuki’s work as she makes her adjustments. “You think he’ll like it?”
“Like it?” She chortles. “Girl, that man isn’t going to know what hit him. You look like a queen.”
“You do,” Yuki says, smiling as she steps back to let me have another look in the mirror.
The skirt rustles as I shift, making yards of lustrous silk whisper against my legs. Soon, I'll wear this gown to marry the man I love. The thought blooms warm in my chest, tender yet certain.
Three hundred people will be watching me walk down that aisle, though I try not to think about that part. Or about all the cameras that will capture every moment. Society columnists have been speculating for months—about the dress, about my past.
About whether I'm worthy of Dominic Baine.
"Ready for the veil?" Serena glides in from the workroom, stunning in her signature black sheath that clings to her slender curves, sleek blonde bob framing her face. She carries herself like the self-made success she is, her meteoric rise from obscurity to couture fashion icon while still in her late twenties.She’s kind and genuine, a woman who looks at me like I've always belonged in rooms like this.
Behind her, another member of Serena’s design team, Nadiyah, emerges with the veil draped over her arms. Olive skin, dark hair swept into a smooth chignon. She’s older than the rest of the team, possibly mid-forties, and more reserved. Her skilled hands cradle the delicate fabric like she's holding something sacred. Weeks of her life have been woven into the lace, thousands of micro-pearls placed individually by hand.
"The weight will be noticeable," Serena says, positioning herself on one side while Nadiyah takes the other. "But you'll adjust quickly."
They lift the veil, and it settles over my hair like a benediction.
It’s heavier than I expected, intricate beadwork pressing gently against my crown. Pearl strands cascade down my back, catching light, and for a moment I'm not thinking about crowds or cameras or columnists. I'm thinking about other pearls. Nick's pearls. Him wrapping them around my wrists while he watched me surrender both my body and my trust to him.
Heat rises to my cheeks.
Tasha sets down her mimosa. "Oh my God, Avery. Just…wow."
The woman reflected in the full-length mirror belongs in bridal magazines. In this beautiful dress, she looks like she actually does belong on Nick's arm at galas, in penthouses, in a life I still sometimes can't believe is mine.
My breath shallows as my thoughts swirl. Three hundred people. Three hundred sets of eyes, watching, judging, waiting for me to prove I don't belong.
"You've gone quiet." Tasha's at the edge of the platform now, studying my face. "Where’d you go just now? Something’s wrong, I can see it in your face."
Serena, Nadiyah, and the rest of the team have retreated to the back of the fitting area, giving me time to wear the dress and veil without their hovering. I glance at where they stand, talking softly among themselves.
Tasha lowers her voice. “You okay? Talk to me.”
I start to shake my head, ready to brush her off, but my best friend’s expression tells me she’s not going to have any of that.
"You know it’s not about Nick,” I say. “I want to marry him. I can’t wait to marry him."
