The door closed behind Serena with the softest, most final click in the world, and the bridal suite folded into itself like a heart stopping mid-beat.
Silence rushed in, thick as water, heavier than guilt, pressing against their skin until it hurt to breathe.
Marianne stood her emerald mother-of-the-bride gown had already been taken off, one sleeve torn where she had ripped it off in a blind panic while the guests were still clapping, while champagne foamed into crystal flutes, while the photographer begged for one more perfect smile.
The dress she wore now was different
It had no sleeves, no real back—just two whisper-thin straps that crossed low between her shoulder blades and then vanished into nothing.
