Sophie’s POV
I was three paragraphs deep into analyzing gender dynamics in Victorian sensation novels when my phone rang. Eleanor's name flashed on the screen, and I felt an immediate spike of anxiety.
Was something wrong with Adrian? With Amelia?
"Eleanor?" I answered quickly.
"Sophie, dear, I hope I'm not interrupting." Her voice was warm, cheerful. "I was wondering if you'd like to go wedding dress shopping with me this weekend. Just the two of us."
I blinked at my laptop screen, processing. "Wedding dress shopping? Already?"
"Why wait? Besides, I’d love to help! I’ll arrange everything so you won't have to worry about it and deal with other wedding business."
Something in my chest tightened. The offer was so genuinely kind, so maternal in a way I hadn't experienced in years.
"I'd love that," I heard myself say. "Thank you."
"Wonderful! I'll make an appointment at that lovely boutique downtown. Saturday at two?"
After we hung up, I stared at my research paper without really seeing it. Eleanor wanted to take me dress shopping.
Adrian's mother, the woman I'd barely known a few months ago, wanted to help me choose a wedding dress. It felt surreal and touching and somehow made the wedding feel more real than the engagement ring on my finger ever had.
***
Saturday arrived faster than I expected. Adrian had insisted on taking Amelia for the afternoon, practically shooing me out the door with reassurances that he could handle bath time and bottles.
The boutique was exactly what I'd imagined when I thought about wedding dress shopping—all white and cream and gold, with chandeliers and plush carpeting and mirrors everywhere.
Eleanor was already waiting when I arrived, and she immediately pulled me into a warm hug.
"You look beautiful," she said, stepping back to examine me. "Glowing, really. Are you excited?"
"Nervous, mostly," I admitted.
"That's perfectly normal." She linked her arm through mine as we walked inside. "Every bride feels nervous. It's a big decision, a big day. But we're going to find you the perfect dress, and you're going to look stunning."
The consultant, an elegant woman named Margot, welcomed us with champagne and immediately began asking questions about my vision. What style did I like? What kind of ceremony were we planning? What was my budget?
I answered as best I could, but the truth was I didn't really know. I hadn't let myself think too deeply about the wedding itself, too focused on just surviving day to day.
Margot brought out dress after dress. The first was all tulle and crystals—beautiful but so traditional it made me feel like I was playing dress-up.
The second was sleek and modern with a plunging neckline that felt too revealing, too much like I was trying to be someone I wasn't. A third was covered in lace that suddenly felt suffocating.
After the fifth or sixth dress, I stood in front of the mirror in yet another gown that just felt wrong, and I felt tears prick at my eyes.
"Sophie?" Eleanor's voice was gentle. She appeared behind me in the mirror, her hand settling on my shoulder. "What's wrong, sweetheart? None of these are right?"
I shook my head, not trusting my voice.
"Margot, could you give us a moment?" Eleanor asked. Once the consultant had left, Eleanor turned me to face her. "Talk to me. What's going on?"
"I don't know what kind of bride I'm supposed to be. The scandal—it still hangs over everything."
I said, the words tumbling out.
"Every time I look at these dresses, especially the white ones, the traditional ones, I just think about all the whispers, all the judgment. Do I even deserve a white dress? Do I deserve a traditional ceremony? Should I just go to the courthouse and get it over with?"
Eleanor's expression softened with understanding. She cupped my face gently, the way a mother would.
"Sophie, listen to me carefully. You deserve whatever makes you happy, whatever feels right to you. The past is the past—what happened, happened, and you can't change it. But this wedding? This is about your future. Yours and Adrian's. No one else gets a vote in how you celebrate that."
"But people will talk."
"People always talk."
Eleanor interrupted firmly.
"You could wear a potato sack and they'd find something to criticize. You could wear the most modest dress in existence and they'd still whisper. So stop worrying about what they think and start thinking about what you want. What makes you feel beautiful? What makes you feel like yourself?"
I wiped my eyes, grateful for the waterproof mascara. "I want something elegant. Sophisticated. Something that doesn't feel like I'm pretending to be the virgin bride, but also doesn't feel like I'm apologizing for who I am."
Eleanor smiled.
"Now we're getting somewhere. Margot?" She called the consultant back in. "We need something elegant and sophisticated. Understated but stunning. No tulle, no excessive lace, nothing too traditional or virginal."
Margot's eyes lit up with understanding. "I have just the thing."
The dress she brought out was different from everything I'd tried. It was ivory rather than stark white, with clean lines and a subtle train. The neckline was elegant without being revealing, the silhouette sophisticated and modern.
When I put it on, something shifted.
I stepped onto the platform in front of the three-way mirror and actually looked at myself, really looked for the first time all afternoon.
The woman staring back at me was someone I barely recognized. Not the scared girl who'd walked into Adrian's lecture hall two years ago. Not the scandal victim plastered across tabloids. Not even the exhausted new mother who could barely keep her head above water.
This woman looked strong, confident. Like she knew exactly who she was and wasn't apologizing for it.
"Oh, Sophie," Eleanor breathed, and when I turned, I saw tears streaming down her face. "You're absolutely beautiful. Adrian is going to lose his mind when he sees you in this."
Something about her genuine emotion cracked something open in my chest. I wanted to tell her everything—about Bellamy's kiss on the balcony, about the guilt eating me alive, about my doubts whether I was making the right choice.
About feeling like I was building this beautiful life on completely unstable ground that could collapse at any moment.
But Eleanor looked so happy, so hopeful and genuinely thrilled to be part of this moment.
"Thank you," I said instead, my voice thick. "For being here. For this. For everything."
She came up onto the platform and hugged me carefully, mindful of the dress.
"I'm so glad Adrian found you," she whispered. "You've made him happier than I've seen him in years. You've given him a daughter, a family, a reason to be better than he was. That's a gift, Sophie."
The words should have made me feel better. Instead, they made the guilt twist deeper.
We chose the dress. Margot explained they'd need to order it in my size and make minor alterations—a process that would take a few weeks once we confirmed the wedding date.
As we left the boutique, Eleanor was still wiping happy tears from her eyes, talking excitedly about veils and shoes and how we should plan a girls' day for final fittings.
In my car, I stared at the business card Margot had given me, her elegant script noting the dress style number and measurements.
My phone buzzed. A text from Adrian: ‘Working late tonight. Some business I need to handle. Don't wait up.’
I stared at the message, that familiar unease creeping up my spine like cold fingers. What business? The blackmail situation he'd mentioned to Bellamy? Something else he wasn't telling me? How many secrets was he keeping now?
I typed back: Okay. See you tonight.
Short. Simple. Not pushing for details I probably wouldn't get anyway.
I started the car, and as I drove home through late afternoon traffic, the wedding dress swayed slightly in the backseat. Beautiful and pristine and full of promise.
Like a ghost of a future I wasn't sure I wanted. Or maybe just wasn't sure I deserved.