Chapter One: Charlotte
The boutique smelled faintly of jasmine and polished mahogany, like a place that had secrets tucked into its seams. Gowns shimmered along the walls, each one a little too extravagant, a little too perfect. Gina was already twirling in a flurry of lace and pearls, the dress cinched at the waist and flaring like a celebration.
"You look like a Disney princess," I said, lounging on the edge of a velvet chaise in my jeans and an ivory eyelet top with puffed sleeves—simple, soft, deliberately unceremonial.
She grinned. "You mean girly and dramatic?"
"Obviously."
This wasn't serious. Not really. Gina wasn't getting married—she already was. We were here because she'd had a rough week and wanted to play dress-up in a place that smelled expensive. She'd booked the appointment with a wink and a "Let's pretend we're planning a double wedding and I'm the difficult one."
The stylist whisked her away for another round of pinning, and I wandered, fingers grazing silk and tulle. I wasn't planning to try anything on. My outfit said as much—casual, unassuming. This was Gina's day to be luminous and ridiculous. But then I turned a corner and stopped breathing.
It was there. A dress made of soft ivory silk, off-shoulder sleeves, and a bodice that was just sheer enough to make my heart stutter. Silk flowers cascaded down like they'd grown there naturally, like the dress had bloomed instead of been sewn. Ethereal, but grounded. I reached out, touched the fabric. It was cool beneath my fingertips, like morning light.
Gina appeared beside me, unusually quiet. "Try it."
"No."
"Why not?"
"You know why."
She tilted her head. "Quinn?"
I nodded. "He's still sorting through the wreckage of someone else's vows. I don't want to make him feel pressured."
"He wouldn't feel pressured," she said softly. "He'd feel hopeful."
She didn't push. Just waited, arms crossed, watching me like she knew I'd cave. And I did. I slipped into the dress "just for fun," the way Gina had slipped into three others before it. My jeans and eyelet top lay folded on the chaise inside the dress room, a quiet contrast to the silk I now wore.
When I stepped out into the brightly lit room and up onto the small pedestal, the room tilted. Gina gasped. A few others turned.
"Okay, now I'm offended. You're stealing my bridal glow." Gina said, sipping champagne.
I laughed, but my fingers trembled where they grazed the fabric. In the mirror, I looked unreal—like something remembered instead of seen.
A woman suddenly appeared at the edge of the room, elegant in black slacks and a silk blouse the color of champagne. Her eyes swept over me, then widened slightly.
"You're Charlotte," she said, not quite a question. "Charlotte Hayes. Quinn Astor's—"
"Girlfriend," I said, gently, before she could say anything heavier.
She smiled, but it was the kind that knew things. "We've dressed his mother before. Not for a wedding, obviously. A gala. She looked stunning."
I blinked. "He never mentioned."
"He wouldn't," she said, "Such a gentleman."
She stepped closer, eyes on the dress. "That looks like it was made for you."
"It wasn't."
"Still," she said, "we're hosting a private showing next Friday. New collection. Intimate crowd. I'd love to have you there. Bring Quinn if you like."
I hesitated. "I'm not—"
"You don't have to be anything," she said. "Just come. See what speaks."
She handed me a card—thick, embossed, smelling faintly of rosewater—and disappeared as quickly as she'd arrived. Gina couldn't hold her excitement as I stood there for a moment longer.
Gina didn't ask. She just lifted her phone and snapped a discreet photo as I slowly walked back into the dressing room. She thought I didn't see.
Quietly, she sent it to Quinn with a single caption:
When you're ready, this is the dress.
***
We ended up at a café two blocks down, the kind with mismatched mugs and a chalkboard menu that always smelled faintly of cinnamon. Gina ordered something frothy and ridiculous. I went for black coffee, not my first choice. I was still trying to shake the feeling of silk against my skin.
We sat by the window, watching the late afternoon spill gold across the pavement. Gina stirred her drink like she was waiting for it to reveal a secret.
"You know," she said, "if I ever do get married again, I want a dress that makes people gasp. Like yours did."
I rolled my eyes. "It wasn't mine."
"It was on your body. That counts."
I sipped my coffee, letting the heat anchor me. "You really sent that photo to Quinn? I saw you Gigi."
She nodded, unapologetic. "He needs a nudge. Not a shove. Just... a reminder that you're still here. Still willing."
"I didn't say I was willing. It's only been ten weeks."
"Officially." She smirked
I looked out the window. A couple walked by, hand in hand, laughing at something only they could hear. I wondered if Quinn had seen the photo yet. If he'd saved it. If he'd felt anything at all.
"I don't want to force him," I said quietly. "He's just finalizing his divorce anyway."
Gina leaned forward, her voice soft but certain. "So. He can still propose. You just can't marry until everything is finalized. Two years right?"
I shrugged my shoulders, not responding right away. Just traced the rim of my mug and let the silence stretch.
Then Gina grinned. "Also, I'm pretty sure the stylist thought we were a couple. I can't believe you go an invitation to some fancy fashion show just because of Quinn. So jealous."
I snorted, toying with the card in my fingertips. "You did call it a double wedding and I'm not sure if I'll go."
"Regardless. I'm just saying, if Quinn doesn't step up. I'll divorce Terry and I'll marry you."
I laughed, the tension loosening in my chest. The dress was behind us now, folded into memory. It's someone else's dream dress. But something had shifted. Not just in me—but in the air between us.
Like the future had leaned in, curious.
