CLARA
The chandelier light in the grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel felt like a thousand tiny needles against my skin.
The rehearsal dinner was supposed to be a flawless event—a glittering precursor to the wedding of the decade. A kind of evening that'd be hard for the guests to forget in years to come. That was what Julian Thorne wanted. But to me, it felt like a choreographed march towards a beautifully designed gallows.
I was a total nervous wreck.
The dress Julian had chosen for me was a masterpiece of strangulation. It was a floor-length sheath of silver lace, so tightly fitted that I had to time my breaths to avoid straining the seams. Julian had been obsessive about it, flying a tailor from the Avenue Montaigne twice for fittings.
"It’s all about us, Clara," he’d said, smooth
