“You’ll regret it,” she said.
“I won’t.”
“I could have Laurent Couture create something extraordinary.”
“No.”
“You’re being stubborn.”
“Probably.”
She stared at me.
Then smiled.
That smile should have warned me.
“Fine,” she said.
For eleven months, she barely mentioned the dress again.
I mistook silence for surrender.
Three days before my wedding, I was standing inside the resort ballroom reviewing table placements when my phone rang.
It was Sofia Marchetti, owner of the bridal atelier in Chicago.
“Isabella, are you alone?”
Something in her voice made me walk toward the windows.
“Yes.”
“We had an unusual situation this morning.”
My stomach tightened.
“What happened?”
“Someone tried to collect your gown.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
“A woman arrived claiming you had authorized an early pickup.”
“Who?”
“She said she was your sister.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“Lila?”
“She showed identification.”
I looked across the ballroom.
Lila was thirty feet away discussing place cards with my mother.
My mother laughed at something she said.
Neither looked toward me.
“Did you give it to her?”
“No.
Your file specifically says release only to you or Daniel.”
Relief hit me.
Then Sofia continued.
“But Isabella…”
“Yes?”
“They knew details.”
“What details?”
“The alterations.
The detachable overskirt.
Your grandmother’s lace.”
I turned slowly toward my mother.
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you have security cameras?”
“Yes.”
“Send me everything.”
Twenty minutes later, I locked myself inside a small conference room.
Sofia had sent three video clips.
The first showed Lila entering the atelier at 9:14 a.m.
She wasn’t alone.
Walking beside her was Celeste Barron.
My mother’s personal stylist.
The second clip showed Lila speaking to the receptionist while Celeste moved toward the gown storage area.
The third showed both women leaving.
Empty-handed.
I watched the footage four times.
On the fifth viewing, I noticed something strange.
Celeste wasn’t angry.
Lila was.
She turned toward the stylist outside the door and said something sharply.
The camera had no audio.
Then Celeste made a phone call.
Thirty seconds later, Lila did something I couldn’t understand.
She started crying.
I sat staring at the frozen screen.
My sister.
My mother’s stylist.
My wedding gown.
Whatever was happening was bigger than fashion.
I called Sofia.
“Has anyone else contacted you?”
She hesitated.
“Your mother.”
Ice moved through me.
“When?”
“About twenty minutes ago.”
“What did she want?”
“She said there had been a family emergency and the gown needed a final adjustment.”
I almost laughed.
Of course.
“What kind of adjustment?”
“She wouldn’t tell me.”
I closed my eyes.
Then I asked a question that changed everything.
“Sofia, when you were working on my grandmother’s lace… did you find anything unusual?”
Silence.
A long silence.
“Why are you asking?”
“Because my mother suddenly wants my dress badly enough to send people after it.”
Sofia exhaled.
“There’s something I need to show you.”
An hour later, Daniel and I were driving to Chicago.
Sofia met us after closing.
She locked the atelier doors behind us and led us downstairs.
My gown stood in the center of the workroom.
Perfect.
Untouched.
For one brief second, I forgot everything else.
