Chapter 1 The Final Fitting

The seamstress stepped back, pins still pinched between her lips, and pressed one hand to her chest. "Miss Hale," she said softly. "You look like a woman who's finally arriving." Naomi Hale turned toward the mirror. Ivory silk fell from her waist in a clean, quiet line, no lace, no glitter, nothing that wasn't necessary. She had designed buildings for six years, and she knew good structure when she saw it. This dress had it. Her throat tightened anyway. Three years of planning. Three years of Julian Bright saying soon and after the merger and when things calm down. In four days, things would finally calm down. In four days, she would walk down an aisle toward the man who had held her hand through her mother's funeral and told her she would never have to be alone again. "Turn for me," the seamstress said. Naomi turned. The skirt whispered against the floor. Her phone buzzed on the fitting-room stool. Vanessa: Running late at the studio. Don't you dare leave without showing me the dress. Naomi smiled and typed back: Already on my way. Put the kettle on. Vanessa Cole had been her person since their first year at university, the girl who shared her ramen, corrected her drafting lines, and stood beside her when they signed the lease on Hale & Cole Design. If Naomi had a sister, it was Vanessa. She was going to be maid of honor in four days. There was no reason to change out of the dress. The studio was ten minutes away, and she wanted to see Vanessa's face when she walked in. She wanted that moment, the one where her best friend would cry and pretend she wasn't. The seamstress fussed with the hem. "You're wearing it out? In this weather?" "It's a short walk." Outside, the sky over Windmere had gone the color of wet slate. Naomi clutched the skirt in both fists and hurried down the street, past the bakery, past the florist who waved through the glass. She was laughing at herself by the time she reached the building on Larkin Street, the one with the brass plate that still made her heart jump: HALE & COLE DESIGN. Her key card worked. The lobby was dim. The receptionist's desk sat empty, which was odd for three in the afternoon. The studio door at the end of the hall was closed. Light spilled from underneath it. Naomi lifted her hand to knock. Then she heard Vanessa's voice, low and unhurried, nothing like the voice she used with Naomi. "She'll sign whatever I put in front of her. She always does." And a man's voice, warm and familiar, the one that said I love you every night before sleep: "Then let's make sure she doesn't read it too closely, Van." Naomi's hand stopped an inch from the wood. The silk of her wedding dress suddenly felt very heavy.