Bianca
They say shopping is therapy, but no one warns you how exhausting it is being effortlessly perfect in a boutique that smells like lavender and is more expensive then a small country.
The shop was a dream, everything I deserved—all soft lighting, velvet chaise lounges, racks of sequins, tulle, and silk in every imaginable color. Gowns floated on hangers like ghosts of royalty past. It was the kind of place that whispered in your ear: If you don’t leave here looking like the best thing that ever happened to this town, it’s because you didn’t try hard enough.
And given who I was, I barely had to try.
“This one,” I said to the tailor, flipping my hair with the kind of practiced ease only someone born to sparkle could manage. The gown was a jewel-toned masterpiece, deep coral sati
