Maeve stood frozen near the closet, trembling.
On the floor lay the dress.
Destroyed.
Torn straight down the middle. Snowflakes ripped apart. The cape shredded. Red stains smeared across the front like someone had done it deliberately.
Maeve collapsed, sobbing.
“My dress… it’s ruined…”
I dropped to my knees, holding the fabric. I knew every inch of it.
This wasn’t an accident.
Someone had done this.
And deep down… I already knew who.
“Who would do this?” Maeve cried.
I didn’t answer.
Because I already had the answer.
Faye.
My mother-in-law.
She had always been difficult—obsessed with appearances, luxury, status. From the moment I told her I was making the dress, her voice dripped with condescension.
“Oh, you’re still doing that?” she had said. “Wouldn’t a real gown be better?”
She had mocked it for weeks.
And earlier that day… she had been here.
Alone.
Near the room where the dress hung.
I had no proof.
But I didn’t need it.
I looked at Maeve, her heart breaking in front of me.
“We’re not giving up,” I said firmly.
She looked at me through tears.
“We are not letting anyone ruin this day.”
She nodded.
I carried the ruined dress downstairs, placed it on the table, and turned on the sewing machine.
My hands trembled.
“Help me, Mom,” I whispered.
I didn’t try to fix it perfectly.
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