Jay stood in front of the mirror in the maroon dress, her arms resting loosely at her sides, eyes still focused on the version of herself she hardly recognized. Her face was bare, pale, her hair falling in soft waves. There was silence for a moment no comments, no distractions just the gentle hum of light and breath and doubt.
She tilted her head slightly, her voice coming so softly it almost seemed to come from her reflection instead of her lips.
"How do I look?"
From where she sat, Venelope leaned forward, catching Jay's eyes through the mirror with a warm, knowing grin. "Try them all," she said playfully. "Give us the full show."
Her mother, who had been silently judging from the couch, added quickly, "Yes. I've chosen so many beautiful dresses for her, but of course she wants to do everything her own way."
Venelope gave a light laugh, her tone effortlessly casual but her words sharply pointed. "Madam, let's see what the bride wants. After all, she is the one getting married. Can't deny her a little control, can we?"
Jay's mother rolled her eyes but said nothing. Her lips pressed together in disapproval, though some part of her the part that had briefly basked in Venelope's compliment earlier kept her from snapping.
Venelope glanced back at Jay, giving her a small nod, the kind of gesture only a best friend could deliver without saying a word. Do what you want. I'm here… and Jay caught it. She nodded once, quietly, and turned back toward the dressing room.
…..
The black dress was heavier than the last. Not just in fabric, but in feeling. As Jay stepped into it and looked down, she saw how the dark beaded embroidery danced under the light like stars in a moonless sky. The train behind her was long, trailing like a shadow that refused to detach. There was something haunting about it.
She walked back into the lounge.
Venelope sat up straighter. Her mother's words caught in her throat. The room itself seemed to fall silent as Jay stepped fully into the light, the train of the black and gold gown flowing behind her like dark water.
It looked otherworldly on her. The way the dress contrasted with her pale skin, her quiet demeanor, the shadows in her eyes it didn't just look beautiful. It looked like it had been made for her.
But her mother gasped, recoiling slightly as if the sight offended her. "No. Not this one. It looks like a… like a funeral dress."
Jay, adjusting the sleeve slowly, glanced up at the mirror, her voice cold and flat.
"Am I not going to die?" she said. "Might as well wear a funeral dress."
Her words landed like a slap.
Her mother shot to her feet. "Jay Miller!"
Her voice cracked with fury and embarrassment. "If you don't want to get married, just say it! What's the point of saying such horrible things?"
Jay turned her head slightly, her eyes void of feeling. "Would you even listen if I said I didn't want to?"
That silence was louder than any argument.
In a flash, her mother surged forward her hand raised but before it could fall, both Venelope and the boutique manager stepped in between them.
"Madam, please!" the manager gasped, grabbing her wrist. "Brides say all sorts of things under pressure. It's the nerves. Please don't"
Venelope stepped in fully now, calm but unyielding. "Jay," she said gently, "Let's just look at the other dresses, okay?"
Jay didn't move. Her reflection stared back at her, regal and still.
"There's no need," she said. "I'll wear this one."
Her mother struggled to break free from the manager's grip. "This girl!"
Just then, the door behind them opened again, and Jay's father entered.
He stopped in the doorway, his breath catching.
"Who's this beautiful queen?" he said with a smile, stepping forward. "Oh… it's my daughter."
The moment softened around him like a breeze entering a storm-filled room. He walked past his wife without so much as a glance and approached Jay, arms slightly outstretched.
He studied the dress the way it glimmered with dark gold threads in the light, the way Jay stood in it, defiant yet graceful and his eyes glistened.
Without asking, he leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead.
From behind, his wife's voice rose again, sharp and trembling. "Miller! Control your daughter! She's saying we're sending her to her death!"
He turned now, finally looking at her. But there was no softness in his expression.
"Are we not?" he said, his voice low and cutting. "Are we not sending her exactly into that?"
His wife froze.
She had no answer. Only shock widening her eyes, reddening her face. Her mouth opened, then closed. She stood still for another moment, then turned and stormed out of the parlour, heels clicking like thunder behind her.
The silence she left behind was heavy.
Jay's father turned back to her, calmer now. "You chose this dress?" he asked.
Jay looked at him, then glanced at Venelope, who hadn't stopped smiling proud, amused, protective.
Finally, Jay turned back to her own reflection.
"I don't know if it looks better than the others, I have no idea why but…," she said quietly. Stopped for a while then continued, "I don't know anything right now. But I want this one. I just… want it."
"So be it," her father said. He turned to the assistant and manager. "Pack this dress."
Jay smiled softly. She stepped down from the small stage, her bare feet brushing the cool wooden floor beneath the long train.
Her father walked beside her. "Jay," he said slowly, as if trying not to let the words crack, "you don't have to get married."
Jay didn't stop walking. She didn't turn around.
"I want to," she said.
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