Nevara
Michelle had laid out seven dresses.
Seven.
Each in its own garment bag, each carefully steamed, labeled, and hung on a gilded rack in the middle of the sunroom. She stood beside it like a stylist awaiting judgment, arms folded, chin lifted.
“You’re not going to hurt my feelings,” she said. “Unless you say they’re all terrible, in which case I will burst into tears and never recover.”
I smirked. “Noted.”
We’d already finalized the menu, the music lineup, and the floral displays—which, somehow, Michelle had managed to make both ethereal and understated. The theme was set: twilight elegance, as she’d dubbed it. Everything leaned soft lavender, silver-gray, muted lilac. Not quite traditional, but not jarringly modern either.
All that was left to choose… was the dress.
Thoren ha
