The mirror in front of me was too perfect. Too glossy. Too still. Like if I stared long enough, I might catch it lying.
"God, you look like a princess," the seamstress whispered behind me, her fingers fussing over the hem of the gown. "No—more than that. You look like a queen."
I smiled, but it didn't quite reach my eyes.
The dress was beautiful. A custom design from a Parisian atelier, flown in just for me. Layers of delicate lace and silk hugged my body like a second skin, the off-shoulder neckline revealing just enough to be elegant but bold. Tiny crystals had been hand-sewn across the bodice, catching the light with every move I made. If perfection could be stitched together, it would look like this.
But perfection had a strange way of feeling… empty.
"Vanessa's going to faint when she sees you walk down the aisle," Avery said from the couch, flipping through a bridal magazine she wasn't even pretending to care about. "Bet she'll 'accidentally' wear white to try and compete."
I laughed. "She already texted me about her dress. Pale gold, apparently. Not white. She emphasized it."
Avery rolled her eyes. "Pale gold is just white with a tan."
I turned back to the mirror and studied my reflection again. Hair swept into a soft chignon, skin glowing thanks to two weeks of facials and clean eating, diamond earrings from Ethan's mother adorning my ears. Everything was in place. No detail left unattended. No thread out of line.
This was the moment every girl dreams about, wasn't it? The final wedding dress fitting. The moment where it all becomes real. The moment you look at yourself and say: I'm getting married. I'm about to start forever.
And yet…
There was a tiny knot in my stomach I couldn't quite explain. Not nerves, not fear. Just… something. A weight. A whisper.
"You okay?" Avery asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "You have your 'thinking-too-much' face on."
"I'm fine," I said quickly, forcing a smile. "Just… soaking it all in."
"Scarlett." She stood, crossing the room to join me in front of the mirror. "You're not allowed to second-guess anything three days before the wedding. That's illegal. I will call the bridal police."
"I'm not second-guessing!" I laughed, brushing her off. "It's just… surreal, you know? I've been planning this day since I was thirteen. And now it's here. It doesn't feel real."
She looked at me for a moment, then nodded. "Okay. That I get."
The seamstress stood up and stepped back, her hands resting on her hips as she admired her work. "All done, Miss Evans. No more adjustments needed. It fits you like it was meant to be yours."
"Thank you," I said softly, still staring at myself.
Meant to be mine.
Was it?
Back in the dressing room, I carefully stepped out of the gown while the assistant helped hang it with delicate hands and reverent care. I changed into my jeans and white silk blouse, wiping the lipstick off my mouth and pulling my hair into a ponytail. The transformation was oddly grounding.
Avery popped her head in. "Ready for lunch? I need fries and scandalous gossip."
"Fries, yes. Scandalous gossip, you'll have to supply."
We headed to our favorite little cafe off Madison, tucked between a florist and an art gallery, the kind of place where the waitstaff knew our names and our coffee orders. I ordered a grilled chicken salad—wedding diet, ugh—and Avery got a burger piled with everything forbidden. She made sure to eat it slowly in front of me.
"So," she said around a mouthful of fries, "have you and Ethan decided where to honeymoon?"
I shrugged, sipping my iced tea. "He mentioned Bora Bora again. Said he booked a villa with a private pool and ocean view."
"Damn. And here I thought a staycation in Brooklyn was romantic."
"Hey, we still have to finalize the guest list for the rehearsal dinner. My dad wants to invite two more investors and his lawyer."
Avery groaned. "You realize your wedding is starting to look more like a corporate merger than a celebration of love, right?"
I frowned. "It's not that bad."
"It is that bad," she said bluntly. "When was the last time you and Ethan had a real date? One without your mom planning the seating arrangement or Richard Evans barging in with stock reports?"
I hesitated. "He's been busy."
"Scarlett."
"I know." I stirred my drink, the ice clinking louder than I liked. "I just… I don't want to complain. Everything's perfect. He's perfect. He loves me. We're building a life."
Avery didn't say anything right away. She just studied me, her expression softening in a way that made me uncomfortable.
"Sometimes," she said, "the idea of perfect is so loud, we stop hearing ourselves think."
I looked away. "Aves—"
"I'm not trying to ruin your fairytale, okay? I just… want you to be happy. For real. Not for the cameras, not for the headlines, not because your stepmother wants a feature in Modern Brides of Manhattan. But you."
"I am happy."
She raised an eyebrow. "Convince your face."
I let out a laugh, but there was something tight in my chest. A flicker of discomfort.
Wasn't this what I wanted?
The proposal had been flawless. Ethan had flown us to Florence for my birthday, taken me to a rooftop at sunset, and slipped the ring on my finger while a string quartet played our song. He'd said all the right things—how he couldn't imagine life without me, how I made him a better man, how I was everything he'd ever dreamed of.
And I'd believed him. I do believe him.
Most days.
Later that night, I sat in my childhood bedroom—what was left of it, anyway—surrounded by cardboard boxes and flower arrangements. The house smelled like lilies and polished wood, the scent of old money and expectations. My stepmother, Margot, had already repurposed half my room into a home office. She'd claimed she was "making space," but I knew better. I was being erased, piece by piece.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the framed photo on my nightstand. Me and Vanessa, arms around each other, grinning in matching swimsuits on some beach vacation our families had taken together when we were sixteen. Her tan, me sunburned. Both of us laughing.
My best friend. My maid of honor.
Avery had never trusted her. Said her smile was too practiced, her compliments too sharp.
"She's not like us," she warned me once. "She wants your life."
I'd laughed. Vanessa was the closest thing I had to a sister. She was ambitious, yes. But I admired that. She knew what she wanted, and she went after it.
Still… lately, something had felt off. She'd been distant. Secretive. Constantly "too busy" to meet up unless it involved wedding plans or appearances. And Ethan had been texting more than usual, but not to me. Always answering late. Saying he was "caught up" or "in meetings."
I shook my head.
Stop. Don't ruin this for yourself. You're just being paranoid.
I turned off the lamp and lay down, closing my eyes, willing myself to sleep. In three days, I would be walking down the aisle. Becoming Mrs. Ethan Blake. The future Mrs. Blake, as the society pages had already dubbed me.
I should have felt joy. Anticipation. Bliss.
But instead, all I felt was the hollow echo of a question I didn't want to ask:
What if this isn't the dream I thought it was?