Months ago, I had stood in a boutique, running my hand over that very gown. “It’s beautiful,” I whispered, hesitant but hopeful. “Maybe… maybe I could wear it on our anniversary, Oliver?”
He had frowned instantly. “Are you crazy? That costs too much. We can’t afford luxuries right now, Candice. Be practical.”
I had bitten my lip, embarrassed, but I let it go. I always let it go. I thought he was being responsible, saving money for us.
But a week later, when Beatrice walked through the house with shopping bags, giggling as she held up that same gown in front of her body, I knew. She twirled in front of the mirror, her smile bright, her voice sweet. “Oliver insisted I take it,” she said. “He said I deserved a reward for helping with the business.”
Back then, I swallowed my hurt. I told myself it didn’t matter. That a gown was just fabric and thread. I convinced myself to ignore the way Oliver’s eyes softened when he looked at her, the way he laughed at her joy while mine was always met with silence.
And now, staring at the invitation with my name nowhere on it, reality carved into me like a blade.
It hadn’t been just a gown. It had been the beginning of my replacement.