Nasya's POV
"Miss Woods, would you like to try the silver gown instead?" The sales associate hovered nearby, holding up a shimmering silver dress that caught the boutique's chandelier light.
I studied the dress's reflection in the mirror, the metallic sheen suddenly conjuring an image of Sylvie's waterfall-straight silver hair. An unexpected laugh bubbled up from my throat—sharp and humorless.
For days, I'd been trying to reach Zayn. That single phone call answered by Sylvie's saccharine voice had been the last successful connection. Every subsequent attempt met with endless ringing or, worse, that automated voicemail greeting in his baritone. So here I was—RSVPing to my own personal hell by boarding a flight to his engagement party like some masochistic wedding crasher.
