My wedding dress is cool against my skin. I’ve had lots of fittings, but it’s different today. Heavier. Fabrizia slides up the zipper, but her progress halts halfway along my back.

“Oh my gosh, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Fabrizia calls an assistant over and the two of them delicately but firmly urge the zip toward the hook and eye.

“I’m so sorry. Mom made sure… I mean, I haven’t eaten in two days.”

Fabrizia tuts. “It isn’t your weight, silly girl. You’ve grown since the last fitting.”

“Grown?”

“Your il petto.” Bosom.

I look in the gilt-framed mirror and see Fabrizia is right. Cleavage swells over the sheer lace cups of my dress. “Do we have time for an alteration?”

With a tiny grunt, Fabrizia manages to close the zip. She snaps the hook and eye with her efficient fingers and steps back, wiping her hands on her suit. “Your fiancé will not have complaints. What do you think?”

I bite my bottom lip. I’ve never shown off my collarbones, let alone my breasts, and the ivory lace make me look even paler than usual. I normally wear my hair up for special events, but Mr. Parker wanted it down in loose curls. I don’t look bad, but I don’t think I look very bridal. At least not the way I imagined I would for my wedding.

“It’s a beautiful dress,” I tell Fabrizia. “I hope I can make it look good.”

She makes the ‘pffeew’ sound again. “I shouldn’t be asking you your opinion, should I? Nothing about this wedding is for you.”

Before I can reply, Fabrizia strides away, barking at her assistants in Italian. One of them brings forward the veil Mr. Parker chose. My hair stylist Monika fixes the diamond circle around my head and the Venetian lace falls almost to my feet.

I study myself in the mirror, rearranging my face into a shy smile. This is how I’ll look as I walk down the aisle. I transition into a toothy beam. This is how I’ll look as the Archbishop announces us Mr. and Mrs. Parker. I touch a hand to my cheek. This is the blissful astonishment I’ll hold through our first dance, giddy at what a fairy tale this has turned out to be.

“January,” Sadie calls. “Can we come see the dress?”

“Of course,” I say, letting my face relax.

By the time everyone has admired the dress, there’s only twenty minutes until the wedding cars arrive. Staff bring out flutes of champagne and orange juice and Kurt and Theodore pour themselves one last whiskey.

“Cheers,” Penelope says, and we clink glasses. I take a small sip of my cocktail and put it aside. Margot downs hers and reaches clumsily for mine. As Margot chugs it back, there’s a sharp tap on my shoulder. It’s Fabrizia. “Come with me,” she says.

I follow her to a corner of the suite hoping mom hasn’t called with some insane last-minute request. But Fabrizia points to a small person slipping through the door. My mouth falls open. “Zia!”