Chapter 40. The Fitting

The mirrors were merciless. They reflected her from every angle—pale skin, unblinking eyes, the fall of white silk pooling like spilled light at her feet.

The room had been stripped of comfort and filled instead with gauze, lace, and the quiet cruelty of elegance. A dozen dresses hung from gilt racks, ghostly in the filtered afternoon light. The air smelled of perfume and starch.

Margherita stood on the dais in the center of the room. A seamstress adjusted the hem of a gown she hadn’t chosen. Another smoothed fabric over her shoulders. The dress was heavy, suffocating—white satin, long sleeves, pearls like droplets of frost.

Simona and Francesca sat nearby, porcelain cups balanced on a silver tray between them. Their voices blended into the background, smooth and practical.

“…the embroidery’s too simple. Try the one with the Chantilly lace.”

“…Maurizio will prefer a higher neckline. Traditional.”

“…something pure. Appropriate.”

Their words b