Sophie’s jaw twitched. “Do you mind not talking about me like I’m not standing here?”
Emma raised an eyebrow. “Then stop acting like a child and stand still.”
“All right,” I said, stepping in before the situation turned physical. “Let’s all breathe. Preferably without ripping five thousand dollars’ worth of French silk.”
A couple of strained chuckles followed, but Sophie’s jaw stayed tight. The pink satin shimmered against her skin, a shade meant to flatter, now clinging like armour.
Caroline laid a careful hand on Sophie’s arm. “Sweetheart, you look beautiful. The dress is perfect.”
“It’s not the dress,” Sophie said, her voice cracking. “It’s…” She shook her head. “Look, just forget it!”
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut fabric.
“Why don’t we take a minute?” I said kindly, stepping closer. “Step out of the dress, get some air.”
Sophie exhaled and nodded. I helped her slip carefully out of the gown, the seamstress clutching it like a precious relic, relief etched across her face.
I guided Sophie towards the window where the breeze wafted in.
Behind us, Caroline was already smoothing things over with her polished, PR-proof tone, but Sophie’s shoulders were trembling beneath my hand.
Whatever this was, it wasn’t just about a hemline.
“Sorry,” she said after a beat, her voice thin. “I didn’t mean to make a scene.”
“It happens,” I said lightly. “If someone doesn’t cry at a fitting, it’s technically not a real wedding.”
That got a half-smile from her, but it was shaky. When she spoke again, her voice had dropped to almost a whisper.
“It’s just… everyone’s pretending everything’s fine, and it’s not.”
I stayed quiet, watching her reflection in the window. “What’s not fine?”
“Everything,” she said quickly, then shook her head. “I don’t know. People are lying, acting like nothing’s wrong, and it’s all so fake. I hate it.”
My instincts sharpened. “What do you mean?”
She paused. “I just… hate secrets.”
The words dropped into the air between us like a small explosion.
“Secrets?” I repeated gently.
She nodded once, still not looking at me. “The kind that make everything feel twisted. Like no one’s telling the truth, even when they’re smiling.”
I waited, certain there was more. But after a few seconds, she forced a stiff laugh. “Forget it. I’m just tired. Ignore me.”
“Of course,” I said, keeping my tone easy. “Everyone’s stretched thin.”
She nodded quickly, eager for the subject to disappear. “I should apologise to the seamstress. I didn’t mean to… you know.”
“It’s all right,” I said, giving her an encouraging pat on the arm. “We’ve all wanted to cry over a dress at some point.”
That earned me a real laugh, brief but genuine, and then she squared her shoulders and went back to the others.
Caroline and Emma turned as Sophie re-entered, both all polite smiles and freshly smoothed expressions, the kind people wear when pretending nothing just happened. Sophie murmured an apology, voice small now, and the seamstress gave a relieved little smile, clearly deciding to take mercy as acceptance.
As I turned to leave, I peeked across at Sophie, who started fussing with the ribbons on a Dior garment bag, her face completely composed.
