“We have a catastrophe,” she gasped. “The dress… the imported French lace. One of the flower girls tripped, her grape juice went flying, and it’s a purple disaster. We tried everything, but the silk is ruined. Claire is hyperventilating in the bridal suite. She refuses to come out.”
Tiffany scoffed. “Well, call the backup designer!”
“The backup is in Milan!” the bridesmaid snapped.
“Bella can help,” Miro interjected calmly. My eyes nearly popped out of my head, but Miro didn’t waver. “The dress that you made was initially for Claire, right?”
“Miro, what if—” I started to protest, my heart hammering.
“Your studio is only a five-minute drive,” Miro said, cutting me off. “I’ll be back soon.”
He left before I could argue.
The panicked bridesmaid now looked confused as she eyed me.
“You
