The Promotion

Chapter Thirty-Two

"I think this one's better than the last," Sarah said, her voice bright as she lifted the skirt slightly and turned her head toward me. "What do you think, Louisa? Louisa? Hello?"

Her words barely registered.

I was standing on the small raised podium in the centre of the boutique, staring at my reflection, but not really seeing myself. The mirrors reflected a bride — ivory fabric, structured bodice, layers of tulle cascading to the floor — but the woman staring back at me looked hollow. Distant. Like she was watching her own life unfold from the outside.

Sarah snapped her fingers inches from my face.

"Earth to Louisa."

I blinked, startled, my gaze finally breaking away from the mirror. "Sorry. What?"

Sarah exhaled sharply, already frustrated. "This is the fourth dress you've tried on, and you haven't said a single thing about any of them. Not good, not bad, not anything."

She gestured toward the boutique assistant, who stood a few steps away with her arms folded, one perfectly arched eyebrow raised. Her heel tapped against the marble floor in a slow, impatient rhythm. She peered at me over the rim of her glasses, clearly assessing how much longer she was willing to tolerate this indecision.

"You really need to decide," Sarah said, lowering her voice but not her intensity. "You're getting married next week. Next week, Louisa. We were lucky to get this appointment. If you don't choose today, you're out of options."

Her words hit harder than I expected.

I looked back at myself. The dress was beautiful — objectively so. A classic ballgown silhouette, fitted tightly at the bodice, strapless and structured, flaring dramatically at the waist. Lace adorned the top half, intricate and delicate, while the skirt below was smooth and plain, almost severe in contrast.

It should have felt magical.

Instead, it felt heavy.

"It's fine," I muttered, shrugging slightly.

Sarah's eyes widened. "No. Don't do that. Don't just settle because you're tired. This is your wedding dress."

"I said it's fine," I snapped, sharper than I meant to. My shoulders ached, my head throbbed. The exhaustion wasn't physical — it was deeper than that. Since leaving work, since leaving him, I felt like something essential had been stripped away. AP Enterprise had been more than a job. It had been purpose. Identity. And walking away from it had left a hollow I didn't know how to fill.

"Can we have a moment, please?" Sarah said to the boutique assistant.

The woman sighed dramatically, muttered something under her breath, and stalked toward the front of the shop, the glass door swinging shut behind her with a sharp clang.

Sarah turned to me, hands on her hips. "Out with it."

"What?" I asked, genuinely confused.

"You're not okay," she said flatly. "You quit the job you loved. You're disengaged about your own wedding. You've left everything to the last minute. Something is going on, and I want to know what."

I inhaled slowly, my chest tightening. I didn't even know how to explain what I was feeling — how could I say something I didn't fully understand myself?

"It's nothing," I said weakly.

Sarah narrowed her eyes. "Is this about Alexander?"

My head snapped up. "What? No."

She studied me for a long moment, then looked away. "Fine."

That alone unsettled me — Sarah never let things go that easily.