Faith
The grand drawing room had been turned into a high-society war room.
Racks of blinding white silk, ivory lace, and tulle filled the space, surrounded by three renowned bridal consultants from New York. At the center of it all stood Eleanor Sutton, sipping sparkling water from a crystal flute while dictating every detail of the upcoming ceremony with ruthless precision.
"We will have three hundred guests," Eleanor announced, not even looking at me as a seamstress aggressively pinned fabric around my waist. "The floral arrangements must be white orchids imported from France. And this gown—" she gestured dismissively toward a stiff, heavily beaded dress that felt like wearing fifty pounds of chainmail over my healing ribs "—is the only acceptable choice for a Sutton bride."
"Mrs. Su
