Chapter 1: Four Hundred Hours
I SPENT FOUR HUNDRED HOURS EMBROIDERING MY OWN WEDDING GOWN BY HAND.
THEN I SAW IT ON MY LITTLE SISTER — TWIRLING IN FRONT OF A BRIDAL SALON MIRROR, WITH MY FIANCÉ STANDING BEHIND HER, HOLDING HER CHAMPAGNE.
I DIDN'T CALL EITHER OF THEM.
I DROVE ACROSS TOWN, WALKED INTO THAT SALON, AND WAITED.
WHAT THE MANAGER PLACED IN FRONT OF ME AT THE COUNTER WAS WORSE THAN THE DRESS.
I'm Juliet.
I'm thirty-four.
For eleven months, I had been building that gown with the most sought-after couturière in Bellmare.
Silk crepe.
A low, clean back.
And four hundred hours of lily-of-the-valley, stitched by my own hands, because they were my grandmother's favorite blooms.
My final fitting was next Thursday.
Then, at six o'clock on a Sunday evening, my phone lit up.
An Instagram story from my sister, Sienna.
Sienna, spinning in my gown in front of a huge mirror.
And behind her, smiling, holding a flute of champagne, was Graham.
My fiancé.
My hands went ice cold.
I didn't call her.
I didn't call him.
I got in my car and drove to Harbor Row.
Atelier Fontaine is all white marble and crystal chandeliers, velvet sofas the color of cream, and the scent of fresh gardenias.
A little brass bell chimed above the door when I stepped in.
The manager, Margot, glanced up from the counter.
She saw my face, and hers went pale.
"Ms.
Hale," she said.
"I didn't know you were coming tonight."
"I'll wait," I said.
I stood beside the counter with my hands folded.
Eight minutes later, I heard my sister laugh.
She came around the corner first, lifting my hem off the marble so it wouldn't drag.
Barefoot.
Glowing.
Graham walked right behind her, carrying her heels in one hand.
They both stopped.
"Jules," Sienna said quickly.
"It was just hanging there.
I only wanted to see."
"It looks gorgeous on you," I said.
She lifted one shoulder.
"Come on.
It's fabric."
Graham set her shoes down on the velvet sofa.
"Jules, let's not do this here."
"Do what?" I asked.
Nobody answered.
Sienna looked at me in the mirror, and her smile shifted.
"Honestly?
It was never really about the dress," she said softly.
"Some things just suit some people better."
And I understood that she wasn't talking about silk.
"You didn't try on a gown, Sienna," I said.
"You tried on my life."
I turned to leave.
And Margot, behind the counter, cleared her throat.
"Ms.
Hale," she said.
"Before you go.
I think you need to see this."
She slid a single sheet of paper across the marble.
An alteration order.
For my gown.
Take in the bodice one inch.
Raise the hem two.
Sienna's measurements.
At the top, under Bride, it didn't say Juliet Hale.
It said Sienna Hale.
Wedding date: June 7.
My wedding date.
Venue: Ashcombe Glasshouse.
My venue.
And at the bottom, under Balance paid in full, there was a sloping signature I would have known anywhere.
I'd seen it on every birthday card of my life.
I looked up from the paper, very steadily.
And my mother walked out of the fitting room, carrying my veil.
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What does Juliet do when she comes face to face with her own mother holding that veil?
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