HERMIONE
I used to think fairytales were for girls who didn't know the world.
Now I know the truth: fairytales are for women who survived the world and still dared to dream.
I stand in front of the full-length mirror in a private bridal suite at Elie Saab's Paris flagship, my wedding gown molded to my body like it was made for my soul. Because it was. Every pearl, every layer of delicate lace, every stitched crystal carries a whisper of the girl I used to be — and the woman I've become.
"You look like something out of a dream," Lia breathes from the velvet couch, her eyes shimmering.
Claire whistles softly. "Correction: she looks like a goddess who just decided to bless this world with her presence."
I laugh, nervous and glowing. "I feel like I'm going to float away."
Isabelle squeezes my hand. "That's love, babe. And also probably that second glass of champagne."
We all burst into giggles, but under it all, my heart is pounding.
Tomorrow, I become Hermione Vale-Voss.
The name sounds surreal. Regal. Like I've earned it.
Because I have.
A soft knock at the door pulls our attention, and before I can call out, the door creaks open — and Dylan steps in.
He's not supposed to see the dress. Not yet.
"Dylan!" I squeak, clutching the silk robe over the gown. "You can't be in here!"
He halts when he sees me, his breath visibly stolen. "Too late."
"Get out!"
He doesn't move. His eyes roam slowly over me, dark and full of awe.
"You are… Jesus, Hermione." He steps forward like a man who just spotted a miracle in a chapel. "I've seen you in courtroom heels and sweatpants with a messy bun, and I've still never seen you like this."
I glare, half-blushing. "Dylan Alexander Voss, you are ruining tradition."
"I'm enhancing it," he murmurs, drawing close enough to kiss my temple, careful not to touch the dress. "Just wanted to see you once. Tomorrow, when I look at you at the altar, I want to know I survived this moment."
My heart flips.
Lia sighs dramatically. "Okay, I'm gonna need a man to say that to me immediately."
Claire groans. "Forget the dress, can we just clone Dylan?"
"I heard that," he says smugly.
After he leaves (finally), the girls and I finalize the last fittings, touch-ups, and final adjustments for tomorrow.
That night, I sit out on the Paris balcony of our penthouse villa, wrapped in a throw blanket, sipping tea.
The Eiffel Tower glows in the distance like a promise. The city of love, witnessing the end of one chapter and the birth of another.
Dylan joins me silently, sitting beside me. I curl into him, letting his warmth settle my nerves.
"You're quiet," he whispers.
"Just… taking it all in," I murmur. "I never thought I'd get here."
"You were always meant to," he replies, pulling me onto his lap.
We stay like that for a while. Cuddling. Breathing. Letting the stars overhead write our story in silence.
"I didn't sleep the night before I met you," Dylan says softly.
I turn to him. "Why?"
"I didn't know what it was. But something in me… knew I was about to meet the rest of my life."
My eyes well up.
"You were right," I whisper.
And tomorrow, I get to marry the man who never gave up on me — not even when I wanted to give up on myself.