“Oh,” she said.
She folded her arms.
“That’s unfortunate.”
But she was smiling.
Just slightly.
I turned toward her.
“Where’s my dress?”
“I have no idea.”
“You were in here last night.”
“So were fifteen other people.”
Camille stared at her.
My mother tilted her head.
“Honestly, Claire, perhaps this is a sign.”
“A sign of what?”
“That you placed too much importance on a piece of fabric.”
I almost laughed.
Before I could answer, my phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
One photograph.
I opened it.
And every drop of blood in my body seemed to turn to ice.
Vanessa stood in front of the mirror inside her suite.
She was holding my stolen gown against her body.
Underneath the photograph were six words.
SHE PLANS TO WEAR IT TONIGHT.
I stared at the message.
Vanessa wasn’t simply stealing my wedding gown.
She intended to wear it to my rehearsal dinner.
Behind me, my mother said quietly, “Is something wrong?”
I looked at her.
Then I looked back at the photograph.
And suddenly I understood what they wanted.
Not the dress.
My reaction.
My mother and sister had spent my entire childhood manufacturing competitions I had never agreed to enter.
If I received an award, Vanessa needed a bigger celebration.
If a teacher complimented me, my mother reminded everyone that Vanessa was prettier.
When I got into Columbia, Vanessa was taken to Paris because she was “feeling overlooked.”
When I became engaged, my mother spent the first ten minutes examining my ring before saying, “Vanessa always preferred emerald cuts.”
Everything beautiful in my life had to become a comparison.
My grandmother had been the only person who refused to participate.
The last time I complained to her about it, she took my hands and said:
“People who need to steal your light are admitting they cannot create their own.”
Standing in that bridal suite, I finally understood something.
Vanessa wasn’t trying to steal my dress.
She was trying to make me fall apart.
So I decided I wouldn’t.
I stepped into the hallway and called Adrian.
He answered immediately.
“Hey.
Everything okay?”
“Do you trust me?”
There was a pause.
“Completely.”
“Then don’t ask what I’m about to do.”
Another pause.
Then he said, “Okay.”
That was one of the reasons I loved him.
He didn’t confuse love with control.
I called Paris next.
Mireille answered on the second ring.
When I explained what had happened, she became strangely quiet.
“How long ago did you discover this?”
“Five minutes.”
“And Vanessa has the gown?”
“Yes.”
Mireille exhaled.
Then she said something that changed everything.
“Claire, there is something Vanessa does not know.”
“What?”
