Thirty-eight minutes before my wedding, my sister poured black dye on my dress—until my groom played a secret recording of her trying to steal him.

Before Caleb could answer, the double doors of the suite swung open. Marcus, Caleb's best man and a former collegiate rower built like a freight train, stepped inside carrying a massive, hard-shell garment case emblazoned with gold lettering: *Vera Wang Privé*.

Behind Marcus walked Madame Simone, the city's most exclusive bridal tailor, accompanied by two assistants carrying rolling toolkits, steam irons, and velvet trays of accessories.

Mallory's jaw dropped so fast it looked comical. "That's... that's impossible. Simone doesn't do house calls. Her waitlist is two years long!"

Madame Simone swept into the room, her sharp gray eyes scanning the chaos with aristocratic disdain. Her gaze landed on the black-stained lace puddling around my feet, and she made a clicking sound with her tongue.

"Barbaric," Simone pronounced in her crisp Parisian accent. "Utterly pedestrian. Who committed this atrocity?"

June pointed directly at Mallory. "The blonde demon over there."

Simone gave Mallory a single up-and-down look that was more devastating than a physical slap. "Cheap fabric choice for the bridesmaid gown, darling. Polyester blend. Tragic."

Mallory looked ready to vomit.

"Lauren," Caleb said softly, taking my hands. "Do you remember three months ago, when you were flipping through Vogue and saw that custom architectural ivory gown with the hand-beaded pearl corset and silk faille skirt?"

My heart stopped. "The one-of-a-kind runway prototype? You told me it was unattainable."

"It was," Caleb said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Until I called Simone at three in the morning, wired her firm an obscene rush fee, and sent a private courier to pick it up from their archive in New York."

Simone snapped her fingers, and her assistants unzipped the garment bag with theatrical reverence.

When the protective covering fell away, the breath evacuated from my lungs. It wasn't just a wedding dress; it was a masterpiece. Gleaming ivory silk faille sculpted into an asymmetric silhouette, adorned with thousands of tiny freshwater pearls that caught the golden afternoon light streaming through the bay windows. It didn't look sweet or traditional. It looked regal. Powerful. Unstoppable.

"Get her out of that tragedy," Simone ordered her assistants, gesturing toward my ruined gown.

"Wait just a minute!" Mom cried, stepping forward to block them. "Caleb, this is absurd! If Lauren wears an haute couture runway piece, she will outshine the entire aesthetic of the wedding! Mallory spent months designing the rustic floral theme!"

I let out a sound that was half laugh, half growl. "Mom, shut up."

The room went dead silent. Eleanor stared at me, eyes wide with utter shock. I had never spoken to her like that in my entire life.

"Lauren Whitaker!" Mom gasped. "How dare you speak to your mother like that—"

"I said, shut up," I repeated, my voice steady, sharp, and icy cold. "For twenty-six years, you have sacrificed me on the altar of Mallory's ego. She stole my college fund, and you called it 'an investment in her art.' She wrecked my car, and you made me apologize for stressing her out. And today, she poured industrial dye on my wedding gown thirty minutes before the service, and your primary concern is whether I match her rustic floral theme?"