The morning of the wedding arrived not with the blaring of trumpets, but with the rhythmic, salt-crusted sigh of the tide. Inside the secluded beach house Grayson had requisitioned for the day, the air smelled of expensive lilies and the sharp, bracing scent of the ocean.
Betty sat before a vanity mirror, her reflection framed by the soft, golden light of a coastal sun. Her fingers trembled as they toyed with the lace of her sleeves, the intricate patterns feeling like a delicate armor. The weight of the diamond on her left hand was a constant, grounding pressure, a reminder that this wasn't a dream born of exhaustion.
"Stop biting your lip, B. You’re going to ruin the gloss before we even get you out the door," a voice teased, cutting through the thick fog of Betty’s nerves.
Veronica,
