The bridal salon on Fifth Avenue was a cathedral of silk and tulle. Sophie Laurent stood on the pedestal, wearing a gown that cost more than her father’s life savings. The seamstress was pinning the hem when the velvet curtains swept open.
Lady Beatrice Croft entered, uninvited, leaning heavily on her cane. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
“No,” Beatrice said, not even looking at Sophie’s face. “The neckline is too ambitious. It suggests confidence. You are marrying into the Crofts, dear. Try for ‘demure gratitude.’”
“William liked this one,” Sophie said, her voice small.
Beatrice stepped onto the podium, invading Sophie’s personal space. She smoothed the silk of the skirt, her touch cold. “William is manic,” she whispered, low enough that the seamstress couldn’t hear. “He is dressing up a doll to play a part. And frankly, darling, you look like exactly what you are: a maid playing dress-up in her mistress’s clothes.”
Sophie fought back tears, staring at her reflection. She wanted to scream, to kick Beatrice out. But she felt the invisible leash around her neck. Beatrice owned her secret, and therefore, she owned the bride.