Ella
Camille arrived at the estate on a Saturday morning with three assistants and enough fabric swatches to redecorate a small country, and I understood within the first hour that wedding planning under her supervision would be every bit as thorough as the transformation she'd once put me through to become Isabella.
"The dress first," she declared, spreading sketches across the study table with the same brisk authority she'd once used to convince me elegance was a matter of belief rather than clothing. "Everything else follows from that decision."
I studied the sketches slowly, silk and lace rendered in careful pencil, until one caught my attention, simple where the others were elaborate, clean lines that reminded me, oddly, of the tailored black Camille had first dressed me in the day
