– Milana –
The faintest knock comes before the door swings open.
"Mila."
I don't move, the silk sheets are warm, and I'm not ready to trade them for whatever performance today demands.
Her heels click against the floor, unhurried but deliberate and a moment later, the curtains whisper apart, flooding the room with pale morning light.
"Up," my mother says. "Your father and Richard have set the date, six weeks from now you'll be married my darling."
My eyes open just enough to find her in the reflection of the mirror across the room, perfectly pressed white blouse, not a strand of hair out of place.
"I've already booked your fittings, we leave in an hour." She glances at the untouched breakfast tray by my bedside. "Maybe skip breakfast, wedding gowns are unforgiving."
I push back the sheets slowly, the weight of her words settling like the light itself, bright, inescapable, and without room for argument.
The floor is cold beneath my feet as I cross to the vanity, my robe slips off one shoulder while I run a comb through my hair, the kind of absent, unhurried strokes that would make my mother twitch.
I'm halfway through deciding whether to wear my hair up or down when my phone lights up on the vanity, Isla.
I swipe to answer, "Hey."
"You have that freshly woken voice," she says, "which tells me you're still in pajamas."
"Correct," I say, smoothing moisturizer into my skin. "Apparently, I have wedding dresses to try on before noon."
"Ah, the glamorous life. Meanwhile, I'm stuck in Morocco for the editorial shoot for Vogue Italia with a photographer who thinks an emerald choker works for a summer campaign."
I smirk faintly. "Sounds exhausting."
"It is, especially since I'm missing your fitting, the least you could do is FaceTime me from the atelier so I can pretend to have an opinion, Mrs. Sinclair."
I roll my eyes at my reflection. "Oh please… just hearing that name makes me want to gag."
She laughs. "What? Half the women in Halston would give anything for that title."
"Then I must be the other half," I reply, reaching for my lipstick.
"Not quite," she says smoothly. "You're the one actually marrying him. I'm looking forward to slipping into the dress that will infuriate your mother, and taking my seat front and center to witness it all."
I take a sip of coffee. "Good, someone should enjoy themselves that day."
Isla says, softer, "You'll survive this, Mila, you always do."
Before I could reply, my mother's voice called from the hallway, sharp and efficient, "Thirty minutes!"
"I have to go," I tell Isla.
"Go get fitted for your happily ever after."
"Haha, very funny."
I end the call, set the phone down, and pick up my lipstick again. Whatever this day is, I'll face it painted, pressed, and unshakable.
---
The car glides to a stop in front of Halston's most exclusive bridal atelier—La Belle Maison.
Inside, the air smells faintly of white roses and polished marble. A team of stylists stood ready, their smiles rehearsed to perfection.
"Miss Milana," the head designer greets, his voice warm but deferential. "We've prepared our most recent couture collection for your viewing. Mrs. Monroe—welcome."
We're ushered into a private fitting suite draped in ivory silk, champagne flutes already waiting on a glass side table.
Serena was already there, perched on a velvet settee with a flute of champagne in hand, scrolling through her phone.
"Just six weeks," she says lightly, "and you're still sleeping in."
I push my hair back and give her a look. "Six weeks is a long time."
She huffs a soft laugh. "Says the woman who's never planned a wedding. I had three months for mine, and it still felt like someone hit fast forward, you'll blink and it'll be here."
"That's the idea," I murmured, following her toward the mirrored platform where the seamstress is already waiting.
The first gown arrives on a padded hanger, carried like a priceless artifact. Layers of hand beaded silk spilled over the stylist's arms, catching the light in a way that demands attention. Serena circles me, hands clasped behind her back.
My mother settles into an armchair in the corner, crossing her legs. She doesn't need to hover; her gaze alone ensures I won't try to escape this process.
The second gown is a classic, fitted bodice, a skirt that sweeps the floor like poured cream.
Serena tilts her head. "That one will photograph well."
"Mila, darling, you and Adrian should meet with the wedding planner as soon as possible," Mother says, flipping through a glossy bridal magazine.
I keep my gaze on the mirror. "He is not available, he's away for business."
Serena arches a brow. "For how long?"
"Until the wedding, from the sound of it," I say, stepping carefully down from the platform so the seamstress can adjust the hem. "Apparently, there's too much to handle for him to be flying back and forth."
Serena makes a faint, dismissive sound. "Well, that leaves us free to make the decisions without interference."
"You're forgetting his mother," I say, slipping into the next gown the assistant holds out.
"Oh, that reminds me, Elaine, Adrian's mother, wants to have lunch with you tomorrow," Mother adds without looking up from the bridal magazine.
I nod slowly, already bracing myself.
By the time the fitting ends, I've stepped in and out of more gowns than I can count, and the day blurs into a carousel of decisions.
---
According to Elaine, "this lunch was a chance for us to talk before the wedding, get to know each other".
I knew better.
The car eased to the curb, the summer heat pressing close as I stepped out, silk clinging to my skin. Inside, the restaurant was a study in white linen and expensive silence, the kind of quiet you couldn't touch without a reservation and a reputation.
Elaine was already seated, her posture flawless, back straight and shoulders squared, her sharp eyes scanned the room with quiet authority, framed by perfectly styled silver streaked hair pulled into a sleek chignon. Beside her sat Cierra Sinclair, Nicholas wife, all polished bone structure and gold bracelets that clink softly when she lifts her glass.
"Milana," Elaine says, with a smile that's elegant and razor thin. "Right on time, I do appreciate a woman who values punctuality."
I smile back, slipping into the chair across from them. "Punctuality is just another way of showing respect, isn't it?"
Cierra's lips curl. "Oh, I'm sure you have plenty of that to show."
"Nice to see you again, Cierra," I say, giving a faint smile.
The waiter approaches, placing a menu in front of me, I flip it open, scanning past the elaborate descriptions until my eyes settle. "The sea bass," I say, closing it with a soft thud. "And a glass of the 2016 Chablis."
Elaine nods, approving the choice without words, and hands her own menu back.
"Six weeks," she says, her tone even but laced with something heavier. "That time will pass quickly, there's much to finalize."
"I've been keeping up with the planners," I reply. "Everything is on schedule."
Cierra leans forward slightly, bracelets whispering against each other. "Schedules are one thing, adjusting to what comes after is another."
Elaine's smile is precise. "Marriage into this family isn't merely about the wedding day, Milana, It's about the role you'll play, publicly, privately, you'll be expected to attend functions, to represent Adrian and the family's interests without flaw."
"I understand," I say. My voice is calm, my posture deliberate.
"I hope you do," Cierra says softly.
"Confidence is useful, just remember, the Sinclair name carries weight, It's a shield, yes… but also a standard you'll be held to," Elaine adds.
"I'm not here to just carry the name, I intend to earn it."
The waiter returns with our glasses, pouring the pale gold wine.
Elaine lifts her glass slightly in a silent toast, a faint, approving smile playing at her lips. With a steady, deliberate sip, I hold her gaze, unspoken confidence sealed in that quiet moment.