“That must have been a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding?”
“The wedding team has dozens of vendors.”
“How does somebody accidentally cancel a wedding dress?”
Lila was sitting on the sofa in my mother’s penthouse, scrolling through her phone.
She looked up sympathetically.
“That’s awful.”
I looked at her.
She blinked.
“What?”
“You knew?”
“Of course not.”
My mother walked toward the bar.
“Well, panicking won’t solve anything.”
“Mom, my dress is gone.”
“And fortunately, we have another.”
I stared at her.
She opened the closet beside the guest room.
There it was.
Wrapped in clear protective plastic.
The most spectacularly hideous wedding dress I had ever seen.
Layers of tulle.
Crystals.
Pearls.
Silver embroidery.
A train that could have covered a small automobile.
I turned slowly toward my mother.
“You already bought a replacement?”
She gave me the smile she used during difficult negotiations.
“I prepared for emergencies.”
“What emergency?”
“The designer had been unreliable.”
“That’s a lie.”
Lila stood.
“Claire, you have thirteen days.
Maybe just try it.”
I looked from my sister to my mother.
Something cold settled inside me.
This wasn’t improvisation.
They had been waiting for this moment.
“No.”
My mother’s jaw tightened.
“Don’t be childish.”
“I’m not wearing that.”
“You cannot walk into the Grand Aurelia wearing something thrown together in two weeks.”
“I’ll wear a department-store dress.”
“Claire.”
“I’ll wear pajamas.”
Lila rolled her eyes.
“Oh my God.
It’s a dress.”
I turned on her.
“Then you wear it.”
Her cheeks flushed.
My mother stepped between us.
“Enough.”
Something in her voice took me backward twenty years.
To ballet lessons I hated.
Christmas photographs that required three outfit changes.
Birthday parties where my mother chose my hairstyle.
College applications she tried to rewrite.
She lowered her voice.
“You have three hundred guests flying here.
Press will be present.
Investors will be present.
Board members will be present.
You represent this family.”
There it was.
Not
your wedding
.
Not
your marriage
.
The family.
The brand.
The company.
“I’ll handle it,” I said.
Then I left.
My mother expected tears.
Lila expected rage.
I gave them neither.
Because before leaving the boutique earlier that afternoon, Mara had caught my arm.
And whispered:
“Claire, I don’t think this was a mistake.”
That evening, Daniel found me sitting on our apartment floor surrounded by wedding invoices.
He took off his jacket.
“Should I be scared?”
“Probably.”
He sat beside me.
I handed him the cancellation document.
He read it.
Then read it again.
“They did this?”
“I don’t know.”
“You think your mother canceled your dress?”
“I think somebody did.”
Daniel looked toward the bedroom.
“Do you want to cancel the wedding?”
The question was so simple that I almost cried.
Not because I wanted to cancel.
Because he was the first person who had asked what
I
wanted.
“No.”
“Then what do you want?”
I looked at the invoices.
“I want to know why.”
Daniel nodded.
No dramatic speech.
