nful clarity. In her past life, she had been forced to wear it. The gasps, the whispers, the thinly veiled sneers. It had been her f

the makeup artist. "Come in," Chloe called out, her

fessional case. Her expression was neutral, but Chloe saw t

gothic monstrosity of black lace and heavy satin, more suited for a funeral than a wedding. It

d to say, her professional com

loe said flatly. "And

nt, your stepmother, Mrs. Powell, was v

hotel butler. "Miss Beaumont, you have less than

or buy a new dress. This was June and Janie's checkm

amiliar. Then, she crushed it. She would not be hum

the grand, floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city. They were f

nd brilliant, spa

on, a way to truly understand the soul of the fashion empire she was building. Behind closed doors, she had honed her skills to a professional level

ar. "In your kit. Do you have an emergency sewing ki

er, utterly bewil

Chloe declared, already w

bed onto it, and began forcefully unhooking the massive silk drapes fr

convinced the bride had final

r the entrance, smug smiles on their faces. They were eagerly awaiting the moment Chloe would appear in that hideous black dress, se

corner, her hands flying as she draped, pinned, and cut. There was no pattern, only the design blooming fully formed in her mind: an elegant, minimali

ce taking over. The intricate gold tassels that had served as curtain

nned silence. This was not the clumsy work of an amateur. This was the con

ight with urgency. "Miss Beaumont, fi

icked, but her eyes blazing with a triumphant fire.

before t

girl who had been so easily manipulated. She was a queen, robed in a stunning, one-of-a-kin