I have to admit, I still do enjoy the occasional bit of wedding porn as much as most women my age do. I mean, we’ve grown up being bombarded by messages about weddings. We’ve all lived for that final scene in a Disney fairy tale where the princess wears a breathtaking wedding dress. Kaavi and I even used to rate them when we were younger. My favorite was Ariel’s, with the enormously poofy sleeves, and Kaavi’s was Cinderella’s. But the dress in front of me would blow Cinderella’s dress out of the water.

“Gorgeous, isn’t it? Andre did most of the embroidery by hand and completely by himself. Apparently, he wouldn’t even let any of his assistants help him with it. He’s such a bloody perfectionist. It’s almost a shame that she’ll change out of it for the reception, but well, her Hayley dress will arrive soon, and who can say no to a Hayley Paige?”

I eyed the delicate boned bodice that was overlaid with a fabric so soft and sheer that it looked almost like a second skin. Floral appliqués delicately embroidered in silver and gray thread bloomed down the long net sleeves. The bottom layer of the flowy, full skirt was adorned in hand-printed batik florals to match the sleeves. Another slight hint of batik—the traditional Sri Lankan hand-dyeing technique—rippled through the bodice. It was like looking into a mystical pond that glistened and shone and danced with the light. If I put this dress on, I could make no promises that I would ever take it off.

It took some effort on my part to tear my eyes away from it. I turned to say something polite and appreciative to Tehani, but she was keying something into her phone.

“Oh fuck, I have to take this. You know the way back to Kaavi’s room, right? I’ll see you later.” And with that, she stuck her phone up onto her ear and vanished.

I made myself leave. It didn’t do me any good to stay here—alone with this dress. I stepped out onto the corridor again as a man made his way toward Mr. Fonseka’s office. He turned beet red when he saw me.

“Oh, hello,” he said. His voice was soft and had a slight tremble to it. “I’m Chamara. The interior designer. How are you?”

“Hi. I’m Amaya.”

He nodded like it made sense and let himself into the office.

Kaavi was still fussing around when I made it back to her room. Her phone rang, but she sighed and silenced it, and started loading up her Louis Vuitton bag. I’ve never understood upper-class Colombo society and their fascination with Louis Vuitton. It’s not even like it was the most expensive brand around, but maybe that was the point. It screamed wealth without having to shell out five times the amount for a Birkin, and god forbid they spend that much on a Chloé or a Mulberry, where the logo wasn’t as obvious.

She finally shouldered her bag but hesitated.