I didn’t fully understand what she meant then. I just knew that for the first time in weeks, I could breathe.
Because somewhere underneath Margaret’s careful pressure and society expectations and whispered judgments, I still believed in something simple:
A wedding dress should make the bride feel like herself.
And I wasn’t about to let anyone—no matter how polished—take that from me.
Part 2
Maison Lavigne felt less like a bridal salon and more like a museum devoted to expensive fabric.
Crystal chandeliers hung from a ceiling that seemed absurdly high. Pale carpeting swallowed footsteps. Gowns stood in glass-fronted displays like relics. A tray of champagne flutes glittered under soft lighting, and every surface looked like it had never been touched by human hands.
Margaret arrived first, of course, because she always arrived first. She stood near the entrance like a queen receiving guests.
“You’re on time,” she said when I walked in with my mother.
“Hi, Margaret,” my mom said warmly, offering her hand.
Margaret accepted it with a polite squeeze and a smile that didn’t bend her eyes. “Catherine. How nice.”