Took My Star Dress, I Said Goodbye

Chapter 3

The glam squad rolled up to my apartment right on schedule the following afternoon.

Before letting them loose on my face, I dialed Scott to coordinate our arrival times. But the moment he answered, he clipped my wings—something urgent had popped up at work, and he wouldn't be able to drive me to the gala anymore.

Trying not to let the disappointment sting, I simply reminded him to throw my custom gown into his trunk so I could change at the venue.

By the time the stylists stepped back to admire their handiwork, the clock was ticking down to zero hour.

I stared at my reflection in the vanity mirror, a faint frown creasing my forehead. "Is it just me, or is the makeup a bit intense?"

"Not at all, Miss Meyer," the lead stylist reassured me, offering a polished, professional smile. "We tailored the drama specifically to complement your gown. Trust the process—once you're in the dress, it'll all come together perfectly."

Fair enough.

I slipped into a casual day dress for the commute, figuring I'd just call Scott to grab the garment bag from his car the second I pulled up.

But when I rang him from the venue, his voice barked through the speaker, dripping with impatience. "How many times a day do you need to check in to feel secure? If you're there, just walk in. I'm in the middle of networking, Daisy. I don't have time to play valet."

"Wait, Scott—my gown! I'm still in my—"

The line went dead before the words could leave my mouth.

Stepping into the grand ballroom felt like walking a plank. I self-consciously tugged at the hem of my skirt, the dark purple, semi-casual fabric making me stick out like a bruised thumb among the sea of glittering haute couture.

A wave of sheer relief washed over me when I finally spotted the familiar, rigid line of Scott's shoulders across the room.

I quickened my pace, desperate to grab my keys and escape to the restroom to change.

Then, a flash of silver-gray cut through the crowd, freezing the breath in my throat.

The fabric shimmered like liquid moonlight under the crystal chandeliers, catching the light with every slow, deliberate sway of the woman's hips.

When I had originally ordered the piece, Scott had been standing right beside me at the atelier.

He had murmured softly into my hair, "It suits your name perfectly, Daisy. A dress woven out of starlight."

But tonight, that very dress—the one meant to hold all my stars—was draped flawlessly over the body of his ex-fiancée, Estella Cooper.