The bridal preparation suite at the estate was suffocatingly quiet compared to the low, hummed chaos reverberating through the main venue.
Inside, sunlight filtered through three-story arched windows, casting long, pale beams across the hardwood floors and warming the scent of polished cedar and cold air-conditioning. In the corner, a custom ivory gown hung from a brass valet, its heavy satin and intricate lace settling in smooth, motionless folds. The room felt suspended, a glass bubble cut off from the rest of the world.
Galathea stood before the floor-to-ceiling mirror, her fingers loosely tying the sash of her silk robe. Behind her, the makeup artist quietly packed her brushes into a leather case, offered a polite, clipped smile, and slipped out the double doors. The heavy latch clicked shut.
Finally, they were alone.
