(Ashley’s Point of View)
The final stitches on Nicole’s wedding gown are almost complete. For the last two days, since her chilling visit and the public humiliation of the Vegas Vixen article, I have poured every ounce of my fear, rage, and grief into this dress. It is a masterpiece of deception. From a distance, it is everything a bride could want—elegant, luxurious, a cascade of silk and lace. But I know its secrets. I know that the intricate, thorny patterns woven into the lace are a silent curse. I know that the flawless seams hold the tension of a woman on the brink of war. The dress is no longer a job; it is my Trojan horse, beautiful and deadly, waiting to be wheeled inside the enemy’s gates.
The pressure is a physical weight, a constant tightness in my chest. The wedding is in
