“Cut the microphone!” Adrian hissed to the altar boys, taking a sudden, aggressive step toward me.

But before his hand could clamp around my wrist, I stepped backward.

I reached behind my back, my fingers finding the hidden silk loop Rosa had sewn into the waistline.

I locked eyes with Vanessa in the front row, whose champagne hat was suddenly trembling.

With one sharp, violent pull, I yanked the hidden clasp.

The heavy, pearl-studded outer shell of the couture gown split open. A collective, deafening gasp tore through the cathedral as the fifty-thousand-dollar dress slid heavily to the floor, pooling around my feet like discarded armor.

I stood before the altar, before God and New York high society, wearing nothing but a simple, thin white silk slip.

And the bruises.