Then came the dress.

It was a custom couture gown, a cascading mountain of ivory silk, Chantilly lace, and seed pearls.

It was objectively breathtaking, and it felt like a body bag.

The seamstress, Rosa, a quiet woman who had worked for my family for decades, helped me step into it.

The corset was pulled agonizingly tight.

My bruised ribs screamed in protest as the laces were drawn.

I winced, sucking in a sharp breath.