“It’s pure white silk. Hand lace. It’s the one.”
Then she dropped the price like it was a casual detail.
$100,000.
I froze. I couldn’t even pretend that number sounded normal.
My mother immediately defended it—like I’d insulted the family name.
Then came the rehearsal dinner.
Emma was tense in a way I couldn’t explain. She kept scanning the room like she was waiting for something to happen.
When she went to the restroom and returned, her face looked drained.
My mother didn’t ask if she was okay.
She warned me.
“Watch Emma. Don’t let her cause problems tomorrow.”
That line didn’t make sense at the time.
It would later.
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