A doting smile curved the corner of Frederick's mouth. He invented some excuse on the spot and dropped me on the side of the road.
I got out without a word. My heels clicked against the pavement the entire way to the bridal boutique. By the time I arrived, every senior design consultant was lined up to greet me.
The backs of my heels were raw and bleeding. I ignored their introductions.
I cut straight to the point, gesturing toward the display room—toward the gown I'd fallen in love with months ago. A saleswoman rushed over, all smiles:
"You must be Ms. Agatha Dickerson! How lucky you are—your husband reserved this piece months in advance. He even had it custom-altered to your measurements."
I froze. My smile locked in place like a mask. Before I could get a word out, several attendants swarmed in to help me into the dress.
They kept showering me with compliments—how perfectly the gown suited my figure, how it was made for someone with my elegance. Every word was a blade twisting deeper into my chest.
I still remembered that wedding—the one the whole city talked about. I'd chosen a simple, understated gown, and Agatha had sneered at it to my face, calling it cheap and poorly made.