“We built some panels into the side,” Mary added quickly. “We can let them out as much as you need between now and the wedding.”
I’d come up with those panels at the last minute. Designing for pregnant brides wasn't rare, but I’d never gone to these lengths before.
Penelope studied her. “It looks like you haven’t been sleeping much.”
“It’s the longest we’ve gone without talking,” Morgan admitted, her voice thick. “Even after the accident—when she told me she was staying with her aunt in Arizona—she still called or texted every single day.”
My chest ached. She was right. I’d lied—but I’d still reached out. And somehow, that made it worse. I hadn't been there for her during the hardest part of her life, and that was the cruelest truth of all.
“I think this one’s perfect, Mary. Thank you,” Morgan said.
I held my breath, waiting for Mary’s cue. She wasn't much of an actress, and she hated being put on the spot, but when I’d told her what I wanted to do, she’d cried. She’d known Catherine, too. She understood.
“If you’ll indulge me,” Mary said carefully, “Can I show you one more dress?”
The silence stretched so long I started to wonder if Morgan had walked out.
“I know you’re probably confused,” Mary continued gently. “You’ll just have to trust me.”
“Okay,” Morgan said softly.
I heard her sigh, then the shuffle of her steps back toward the dressing room. That was when Mary slipped into the back with me. She leaned in, whispering, “It’s showtime.”
By then, I’d already taken the dress off the mannequin. “If she says anything, just tell her it’s not one hundred percent finished yet, but it’ll be done in time. I promise.”
“You’re not going to stay?” Mary asked quietly.
“No. I have to wait until they’re ready to forgive me.”
She gave me a small, knowing smile. Because of the favor I was asking, I’d told her the bare bones of everything that had happened. It probably didn't make much sense, but she understood enough. She took the dress from me like it was the most fragile thing in the world.
The second Morgan saw it, I heard her choke back a sob. “Mary, how did you do this?”
Mary didn't get to answer. Nobody did. The first voice to break through was Elliott’s—the first words he’d spoken the entire visit.
“Vanessa.”
The way he said my name was impossible to read. No anger. No softness. Just… my name.
“Is that true, Mary? Did Vanessa do this?”
I’d told her she could be honest if they figured it out. So, she was. “She wanted to surprise you. It’s a replica.”
I leaned against the wall, listening as tears burned hot behind my eyes. Morgan sobbed harder, and I couldn't help crying quietly, too.
“Do you want to try it on? There are panels on this one, too,” Mary offered.
Morgan didn't answer, but she must have nodded, because I heard them moving toward the dressing room. That was my cue. I’d done what I came to do. Anything more would have felt intrusive.
I was halfway to the back exit when footsteps echoed behind me. I turned, and there was Elliott, standing at the other end of the hallway. For one suspended moment, we just stared at each other. He didn't move closer. He didn't have to. Somehow, he already knew I was there.
I didn't give him the chance to say or do anything. I pushed out into the warm L.A. air and slid into the cab I’d paid extra to keep waiting.
Later that night, after more hours in the makeshift studio of a seamstress friend, I finally made it home. One text waited on my phone.
Penelope: Your ass had better be on the plane to Cabo.
Attached was a flight ticket and an itinerary.
