She stared at me. “No?”
I looked at myself in the mirror. My hair was pinned perfectly. My makeup was gentle, expensive, flawless. My hands did not shake.
The woman looking back at me did not seem shattered.
She looked done waiting.
My father knocked once and stepped inside. He saw the dress. His face turned pale, then red. “Maya.”
“I’m wearing it,” I said.
“No, baby.”
“Yes.”
Tessa whispered, “You can’t walk in front of two hundred people like that.”
I turned toward her. “That’s exactly why I can.”
Downstairs, the string quartet had begun playing. Guests were being seated beneath white roses and crystal chandeliers. The Whitmores had invited judges, bankers, donors, senators, people who adored spotless reputations and filthy secrets.
They believed I was a fortunate girl marrying above myself.
They had no idea I had spent six months marrying beneath myself with my eyes wide open.
I stepped into the ruined dress. The cold stain pressed against my skin. My father’s jaw tightened, but he gave me his arm.
At the chapel doors, he whispered, “Tell me what to do.”
I squeezed his hand.
“Walk slowly.”…
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