The atelier smelled faintly of lavender and silk, an intoxicating mix of luxury and anticipation. Light streamed through the tall arched windows, casting a golden glow across the room where bolts of ivory fabric were draped like clouds over dress forms. Aria stood before a wall-length mirror, barefoot on a small pedestal, her heart racing faster than she wanted to admit.
This was it, the moment every girl imagined at least once. But for Aria, the idea of wearing a wedding dress had always felt like a dream meant for someone else. Not the orphan who had spent most of her life surviving from one day to the next. Not the woman who stumbled into a marriage contract born of necessity rather than romance. And yet here she was, about to become Aria DeLuca, wife to the most dangerous, complicated, and irresistible man she had ever known.
The seamstress stepped back and smiled, pinning the last piece of lace into place. "There," she said softly. "Look."
