“It’s not a competition,” I said, stepping backward toward the exit. “You look beautiful. I’m going.”

“Don’t you dare turn your back on me!” She lunged into my space, chest heaving.

I stepped back again instinctively, but the alcove was tight, crowded with stacked catering chairs. As I moved, my shoulder brushed the trailing edge of her veil.

A smudge of gray Afghan dust transferred onto the pristine tulle.

It was tiny. A faint shadow on the fabric.

To Chloe, it was a declaration of war.