When I returned with the garment bag, Margaret had composed herself into what I recognized as her diplomatic posture: chin slightly lifted, smile faint, eyes prepared to deliver pity without looking cruel.
David stood beside me, his hand firm on my back.
“Ready?” he murmured.
I nodded and unzipped the bag.
The dress slid into view like a quiet secret revealed.
It was an ivory silk column—clean lines, understated elegance—with delicate beadwork along the neckline that caught the light like soft frost. The train was subtle but undeniably luxurious, the kind that moved like water instead of stiff fabric. It didn’t scream for attention. It didn’t need to.
Even on the hanger, it looked like it belonged to someone who knew herself.
For a second, the room went silent.
Then Margaret made a sound that might have been admiration if her pride hadn’t gotten in the way.
“Well,” she said, tilting her head. “It’s… simple.”
Beatrice leaned forward, squinting like she was searching for flaws. “What a shame your family couldn’t afford something better,” she said, with a little laugh that tried to pass as sympathy.