The heavy, pearl-buttoned back of the dress was entirely decorative.

Beneath the lace, Rosa had installed a series of quick-release theatrical clasps.

A single, sharp pull at the waistline, and the entire outer shell of the gown would detach, falling away to reveal the simple, thin white slip beneath.

While I was being laced into my armor, Marisol Venn, my attorney, was moving like a ghost through the cathedral.

Disguised as a member of the event planning staff, she intercepted the ushers’ baskets.

Into every single gold-embossed wedding program, she seamlessly slipped the heavy cardstock insert I’d printed the night before.