Chapter 1: The Dress She Tried to Destroy
The bridesmaid poured an entire bucket of bright pink paint down the back of my wedding dress just three hours before I was supposed to walk down the aisle.
Then she stepped back, admired the damage, and laughed.
“Now you’ll never be the beautiful bride!””
I stood frozen in the middle of the bridal dressing room, staring at the pink liquid dripping from the delicate lace of my gown. It ran down the satin, soaked into the train, and spread across the floor like a crime scene.
My name is Camille Brooks. I was twenty-nine years old, and I had spent fourteen months planning my wedding.
Fourteen months of saving money, comparing venues, visiting florists, choosing music, and imagining the moment I would finally see my fiancé waiting for me at the end of the aisle.
And now, three hours before that moment, someone had decided to turn my wedding dress into a disaster.
That someone was Vanessa Reed.
She was my fiancé's childhood friend, one of my bridesmaids, and the person who had spent the last six months pretending to be happy for me.
I had ignored the little comments.
I had overlooked the suspiciously cold smiles.
I had even convinced myself that Vanessa was simply struggling with the idea that her closest male friend was getting married.
But I had never imagined she would do something like this.
“You've destroyed my wedding dress!”” I cried.
Vanessa pointed at the ruined train.
“Oh, Camille. Don't be so dramatic. It's only a dress.””
“Only a dress?”” I repeated, my voice shaking.
“Do you have any idea how much this cost?””
She shrugged and placed the empty bucket on the dressing table.
“Maybe you should have bought something less expensive.””
I looked at her in disbelief.
The room smelled sharply of fresh paint. Pink droplets slid from the lace sleeves onto my shoes. My carefully arranged veil had caught several splashes, and the white satin was already turning an ugly shade of magenta.
Vanessa glanced at her reflection in the mirror and adjusted the shoulder of her plum-purple bridesmaid dress.
“Honestly, I did you a favor,” she said.
“That gown was making you look like you were trying too hard.””
I swallowed.
“Why would you do this?””
She laughed again.
“Because someone needed to remind you that not everything is about you.””
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to throw the bucket at her.
Instead, I stood there, trying to understand how a person could look directly into someone else's face and take pleasure in destroying something they had worked so hard to create.
Vanessa picked up her small handbag.
“Don't worry. I'll tell everyone you had a little accident.””
“Vanessa, don't walk away.””
She stopped at the doorway and looked over her shoulder.
“What are you going to do? Cancel the wedding?””
Then she smiled.
“Good luck explaining that to everybody.””
And she left.
The door clicked shut.
For several seconds, the only sound was the dripping paint.
I lowered myself onto the small velvet chair beside the dressing table.
My hands trembled.
On the table sat a framed photograph of my mother.
She had passed away four years earlier, before she could meet Daniel, before she could attend our engagement party, and long before she could see me in my wedding dress.
The gown had been inspired by a photograph of her wedding.
My mother had worn a simple white dress decorated with handmade fabric flowers. She couldn't afford an expensive designer gown, so my grandmother had spent weeks sewing tiny petals onto the skirt.
When I got engaged, I found an old photograph of that dress and showed it to my designer.
I wanted something elegant, but I also wanted something that carried a little piece of my mother with me.
The result was a beautiful ivory gown with delicate lace, a fitted bodice, and a long satin train.
I had cried when I first tried it on.
Now I was crying for a different reason.
I picked up the photograph.
“Mom,” I whispered, “I don't know what to do.””
A knock came from the other side of the door.
“Camille? Are you okay?””
It was Tasha, my maid of honor.
I quickly wiped my cheeks.
“Come in.””
Tasha opened the door and stopped.
Her eyes moved from my face to the ruined dress, then to the pink puddle on the floor.
“Oh, my God.””
She rushed toward me.
“Camille! What happened?””
I couldn't answer immediately.
“Vanessa,” I finally whispered.
Tasha's expression changed.
“Vanessa did this?””
I nodded.
Tasha looked toward the doorway as if she expected Vanessa to return.
“That woman has officially lost her mind.””
“She said it was an accident.””
“An accident?”” Tasha pointed at the empty bucket.
“Did the paint accidentally jump out and pour itself down your entire dress?””
Despite everything, a tiny laugh escaped me.
Then I started crying again.
Tasha wrapped her arms around my shoulders.
“Listen to me. We can fix this.””
I shook my head.
“Look at it. There's paint everywhere.””
“Then we'll find another dress.””
“There isn't another dress.””
“We'll find one.””
I looked at the clock.
11:18 a.m.
The ceremony was scheduled for two o'clock.
The wedding venue was forty minutes away.
Even if we could find a replacement dress, there wasn't enough time to have it fitted.
Tasha pulled out her phone.
“I'm calling the bridal shop.””
“Don't.””
“Camille—”
“Please. Just give me a minute.””
She lowered the phone.
I stood and carefully lifted the back of my gown.
The pink paint had spread across almost the entire train. Some areas were saturated, while others had delicate splashes that looked almost like flower petals.
I stared at the pattern.
Something about it caught my attention.
Then I looked toward the corner of the room.
There was a large garment bag hanging from the wardrobe. Inside were the extra decorative materials my designer had delivered two days earlier.
Most of them were unused.
I opened the bag.
White tulle.
Pink floral appliqués.
Soft rose-colored organza.
And several lengths of ombre fabric that gradually changed from pale blush to deep rose.
My mother had loved roses.
She used to grow them in the small garden behind our old house.
I remembered spending summer afternoons beside her while she taught me how to arrange flowers. She always said that damaged petals didn't make a rose less beautiful.
“They just give it character, sweetheart.””
I ran my fingers over the pink fabric.
Tasha watched me.
“What are you thinking?””
I didn't answer immediately.
Instead, I walked toward the full-length mirror.
The paint covered the back of my dress, but the front was still mostly untouched.
The gown was not completely ruined.
It was unfinished in a way I had never planned.
I picked up one of the floral pieces.
Then another.
And another.
My breathing slowed.
“Camille?”” Tasha asked carefully.
I turned toward her.
“Do you still have those fabric scissors?””
She blinked.
“What?””
“The scissors. The ones we used when we were arranging the table decorations.””
Tasha stared at me for a moment.
Then she smiled.
“You're not thinking about doing what I think you're thinking about, are you?””
I held up the pink fabric.
“Vanessa thinks she destroyed my wedding.””
I looked at my reflection.
“She hasn't seen the finished dress yet.””
Tasha's mouth slowly opened.
Then she rushed toward the garment bag.
“Tell me what you need.””
I picked up the scissors.
“First, lock the door.””
Tasha did.
Then I looked once more at my mother's photograph.
And for the first time since the paint hit my gown, I stopped crying.
I had two hours and forty minutes.
And I was going to make every second count.
But while Tasha began laying out the fabric, my phone vibrated on the dressing table.
A message appeared from Daniel.
*Daniel: Baby, there's something I need to tell you before the ceremony. It concerns Vanessa. Please don't let her leave the venue.*
I stared at the screen.
May you like
Why was my fiancé asking me to keep the woman who had just destroyed my wedding dress at the venue?
And what did he know that I didn't?
