Chapter 1

Janelle

The boutique's crystal chandeliers cast everything in soft gold, making even the most modest dress shimmer like something from a fairy tale. I run my fingers along a rack of silk and satin, each gown more elaborate than the last.

"This one screams 'future senator's wife,'" Camille announces, holding up a creation that appears to have swallowed half a swan. The sleeves alone could house a small family.

Mama clicks her tongue approvingly. "Now that has presence. Evan's mother would appreciate the craftsmanship."

"I'd appreciate being able to sit down." I push the hanger away gently. "Maybe something a little less... architectural?"

The sales associate, a reed-thin woman with perfectly pinned silver hair, glides over with arms full of ivory silk. "Perhaps we start with classic silhouettes? Something timeless for such an important occasion."

She holds up a dress that could grace the cover of a bridal magazine—all flowing lines and delicate beadwork. It's beautiful. It's everything a wedding dress should be.

I suddenly find it hard to breathe.

"Oh, Janelle." Mama's voice goes soft with emotion. "Your grandmother would have loved to see you in something like this."

Guilt settles in my stomach like a stone. Grandma Rose had waited sixty-three years to see me married, saving every penny to contribute to my wedding fund. She'd passed last winter, leaving behind her blessing and enough money to buy any dress I wanted.

"Try it on, baby." Mama's eyes glisten. "For her."

The fitting room mirror reflects a bride I don't recognize. The dress transforms me into someone else entirely—someone serene and untouchable, floating rather than walking. The beadwork catches the light with every breath.

"You look like a princess," the assistant gushes from outside the curtain.

"More like a museum exhibit," I mutter, tugging at the neckline.

"Did you say something, dear?"

"Just admiring the craftsmanship."

Camille's voice carries through the curtain, pitched low enough that only I can hear. "You know, when we were kids, you always said you'd wear Grandma's dress. Remember? The one with the pearl buttons?"

I freeze, my hand on the curtain. That dress hangs in my closet at home—simple ivory crepe with a fitted bodice and flowing skirt. No beadwork, no drama. Just honest elegance that smells faintly of lavender and memories.

"That old thing?" Mama's voice rises slightly. "This is Janelle's moment to shine."

I stare at my reflection, at this perfect stranger wearing my face.

Twenty-five dresses later, I find it hanging in the back corner like an afterthought. Simple A-line silk with cap sleeves and a sweetheart neckline. No crystals screaming for attention, no train that requires a small army to manage. Just clean lines that follow my body instead of drowning it.

"Now this has possibilities." The assistant sounds surprised, as if she'd forgotten it existed.

I slip into the dress without fanfare. The silk moves with me, whispering against my skin instead of announcing my presence to the entire church. In the mirror, I look like myself—just elevated.

"Oh my goodness." Mama's hand flies to her throat when I emerge. "Janelle, you look absolutely radiant."

"Classic elegance," the assistant nods approvingly. "It photographs beautifully too."

Camille circles me slowly, her gold bangles chiming. "This is it. This is definitely it. You look like you could walk down any aisle in the world and own it."

I turn in front of the three-way mirror, watching myself from every angle. The dress fits perfectly, requires minimal alterations. It's everything a wedding dress should be—timeless, flattering, appropriate for the venue Evan selected.

"The neckline is perfect for your grandmother's pearls," Mama continues, already planning the accessories. "And it won't compete with the cathedral's architecture."

"Very sophisticated choice," the assistant agrees. "You'll look back at these photos in thirty years and still love what you see."

They circle me like planets around the sun, their voices blending into background noise. Someone mentions bustles and someone else talks about the perfect veil length. Camille snaps photos with her phone while Mama calls my aunt to describe the dress in breathless detail.

I stand perfectly still in the center of their excitement, watching my reflection. The woman in the mirror smiles when I smile, nods when I nod. She looks appropriate. She looks exactly what everyone expects.

"So we're saying yes to the dress?" The assistant pulls out her order pad with theatrical flourish.

"Yes," I hear myself say. "This is the one."

The word hangs in the air like incense. Final. Decisive. Exactly what they all want to hear.

"Wonderful!" Mama claps her hands together. "Oh, Janelle, you're going to be the most beautiful bride."

They continue their planning around me—delivery dates and final fittings and the perfect shoes to complement the hemline. Their voices fade to white noise as I stare at the stranger in ivory silk, wondering why choosing the perfect dress feels like losing something I can't name.

The assistant produces a bottle of Dom Pérignon from somewhere behind the counter, the cork popping with ceremonial authority. Crystal flutes appear as if summoned by wedding magic.

"To the bride-to-be!" Mama raises her glass, bubbles dancing toward the surface. "And to marrying well."

"To Janelle and her future state senator," the assistant chimes in, clearly delighted to be part of the moment.

Camille lifts her flute with a theatrical flourish. "To bagging the most eligible bachelor in three counties and looking absolutely stunning while doing it."

The champagne tastes expensive and hollow. I manage another sip while they continue their toasts around me.

"Evan's going places," Mama continues, settling into her favorite topic. "The party's already talking about grooming him for bigger things. Governor, maybe. Can you imagine—Governor Brooks?"

"First Lady Janelle has a nice ring to it," the assistant agrees.

They paint pictures of my future with broad, confident strokes—charity galas and campaign events, tasteful Christmas cards featuring our beautiful children. A life measured in approval ratings and photo opportunities.

"You know what I love most about Evan?" Mama swirls her champagne thoughtfully. "He understands the importance of image. A man in his position needs a wife who reflects his values."

"Reflects them or embodies them?" I ask before I can stop myself.

Mama blinks. "What's the difference, sweetheart?"

"Nothing." I take another sip. "Just wondering if there's room for both of us in this reflection."

Camille's bangles catch the light as she studies my face. The champagne suddenly tastes like disappointment and duty. She sidles closer, her voice dropping lower.

"You look like you're at a funeral, not a wedding."

Her words slice through the celebratory atmosphere. Mama's smile falters slightly.

"Camille," Mama warns.

"What? I'm just saying—" Camille gestures toward me with her glass. "Most brides don't look like they're planning their own execution when they find the perfect dress."

"I'm fine." The words erupt sharper than intended. "Just overwhelmed. It's a big decision."

"Choosing a dress or choosing a life?"

The question hangs between us like smoke. Mama sets down her champagne with deliberate care.

"Camille Marie Carter, that's quite enough."

"Is it though?" Camille's purple-tipped curls bounce as she shakes her head. "Because I've known Janelle since we were kids drawing wedding dresses on napkins, and she never once drew herself looking miserable in ivory silk."

The assistant suddenly finds urgent business arranging hangers in the far corner.

"I'm not miserable," I protest, but the words sound thin even to me.

"Then prove it." Camille raises her glass again. "Toast to marrying the man of your dreams. Go ahead."

Her challenge settles over the boutique like dust. Mama watches me with careful eyes while the assistant pretends not to listen.

I lift my glass, the crystal cold against my palm.

"To marrying the man of my dreams." The words taste like champagne and lies. "To a future full of... possibilities."

Camille's eyes narrow at my diplomatic evasion, but she clinks her glass against mine anyway. Mama beams with maternal satisfaction.

"There's my girl," Mama says, relief evident in her voice. "Sometimes the magnitude of it all just takes a moment to sink in."

I drain my champagne in two quick swallows, the bubbles sharp against my throat. The assistant returns with measuring tape and scheduling books, the business of becoming Mrs. Brooks resuming its steady march forward.

"Now, for the final fitting, we'll want to schedule about three weeks before the ceremony," she explains, jotting notes. "That gives us time for any last-minute adjustments."

For last-minute adjustments. The phrase echoes strangely in my head as I step out of the dress with mechanical precision. 

"I'll call you with some dates," I tell her, accepting the garment bag like it contains someone else's future.

The drive home passes in a blur of Mama's excited chatter about venues and flowers and the caterer's latest menu suggestions. Camille stays unusually quiet in the backseat, occasionally catching my eye in the rearview mirror with expressions I pretend not to understand.

"Oh, and Evan called while we were out," Mama mentions as we pull into her driveway. "Something about dinner reservations tonight. He sounded pleased about something."

My stomach tightens. Evan's pleased voice usually means he's landed another endorsement or secured another stepping stone in his carefully mapped political ascent. It means he expects me to celebrate whatever victory he's achieved, to reflect his success back at him with appropriate enthusiasm.

"Did he say what for?"

"Some sort of announcement, I think. You know how he loves his surprises."

Camille finally speaks up. "What kind of surprises does a man like Evan Brooks spring on people?"

"The good kind," Mama says firmly. "He's very thoughtful that way."

I carry the dress bag upstairs to my childhood bedroom, now transformed into a wedding command center. Sample invitations cover the desk, fabric swatches pin to the bulletin board, and venue brochures stack in neat piles on the dresser. Everything organized, everything decided, everything perfect.

I hang the dress in the closet next to three potential bridesmaid options and Grandma's forgotten gown. The ivory silk disappears between them like it belongs there, just another costume waiting for its performance.

My phone buzzes with a text from Evan: Can't wait to see you tonight. Big news to share. Wear the blue dress I got you.

I stare at the message, noting how he's already chosen my outfit for celebrating whatever milestone he's reached today. The blue dress hangs in my apartment closet—elegant, expensive, and somehow always making me feel like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's life.

Another text follows immediately: You're going to love this. Everything's falling into place perfectly.

Everything's falling into place. His words, his timeline, his vision of our perfect future unfolding exactly as he's planned it. I sink onto my childhood bed, surrounded by wedding preparations that feel more like battle plans for a war I never signed up to fight.

I don't know if I can go through with this.