Emma stood in the center of the suite, arms outstretched as a small team of maids bustled around her, adjusting fabric, pinning hems, and tightening a corset that felt like it had been designed to challenge her ability to breathe. She grimaced as one of the maids yanked the laces a little too enthusiastically. “Seriously,” she muttered, half-joking. “Is this a corset or a medieval torture device?”
The head maid, a petite woman with a stern expression and an even firmer grip, merely raised an eyebrow. “It is tradition, Miss VonKessler. One must endure a little discomfort for elegance.”
Emma wasn’t convinced. She glanced toward the massive mirror on the wall and tried to make sense of the person staring back at her. The dress they’d chosen was stunning — deep emerald velvet that hugged her
