She went quiet for a moment.
“Mic, I can’t explain over the phone,” she said, her voice tight. “I need you there—where she can’t rewrite what she did in front of witnesses.”
I sank onto the couch, staring at the dress. “Are you okay? Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“I’m fine, love,” she said too quickly. “I just can’t let her take this too. Please. You’ll understand soon.”
The call ended before I could ask more. I sat there, the dress in my lap, letting the silk slip through my fingers.
Did I really want to be part of this?
The hardest part wasn’t the dress. It was how Elena sounded—like someone standing on the edge of something, and I couldn’t tell which way she might fall.
I thought about the early days with Mark, how Elena had cooked for me, how she showed me pictures of her daughter, Clara, her expression soft with grief.
I owed her.
**
The next three days were a blur of nerves. I tried the dress on, pacing my apartment. I called my best friend, Nicole, and told her everything.
“What if it’s a trap? What if I ruin the day just by showing up?”
Nicole snorted. “If Elena’s asking, there’s a reason. But listen—if this goes sideways, they’ll label you the crazy ex. Just stay confident and trust her. She loves you like her own.”
**
On the morning of the wedding, I redid my makeup twice. I pinned up my hair, hands damp, and stared at myself in the mirror.
“You’re not doing this for Mark, Mic,” I whispered. “You’re doing this for Elena. For yourself.”
At the venue, I nearly turned back. The moment I walked in, the room quieted.
Heads turned. Whispers followed.
I saw Mark across the room, confusion flickering across his face. He looked at me like I didn’t belong to the life he was standing in.
I found Elena near the front. She reached for my hand, squeezing it gently.
As I shifted, the inner seam brushed my skin—tiny stitched initials I hadn’t noticed before: C.M. My throat tightened.
“You look perfect,” she murmured. “Thank you for trusting me, darling.”
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