Instead, I’m arriving an hour before the wedding, ensconced at the very bottom of the guest list, worried that Mia might order me to get the hell out the moment she sets eyes on me.
The manager holds the door open. I step through.
The room beyond is massive and luxurious, which I expected. What I’m not expecting is to see so many other women flitting around.
Mis is sitting on a round, white-cushioned settee that’s almost completely hidden underneath the layers of her lace wedding dress. A flock of assistants scurry around her, fussing with her hair and her dress and her makeup.
There’s so much going on that Mia doesn’t see me at first. But I don’t mind that. I want to be able to look at her—admire her—before I have to figure out what to say.
The dress is elaborate. The lace runs up he
