Chapter 7: Champagne, Tulle, and Secrets
(Eden’s POV)
The boutique smelled like a wedding catalog.
Fresh peonies. Satin. Anxiety.
I sat on a velvet settee near the mirrors, watching Harper twirl in her dress like a giddy little girl who’d just been handed a tiara. Her bridal gown had already been finalized weeks ago, but this fitting was for the bridesmaids—and the florist, who Harper insisted needed to “feel the vibe.”
Whatever that meant.
Around me, champagne flutes clinked and tulle rustled like whispers. Our cousin Camille was halfway through her second mimosa. The florist, a woman named Tasha who dressed like a Vogue editor and smelled like expensive roses, was showing Harper a mood board of blush and cream florals.
And me?
I hadn’t said a word in twenty minutes.
I was trying.
Really.
But my phone burned a hole in my purse.
What’s your fantasy, Eden?
That text had arrived over an hour ago. And it hadn’t left my mind since.
I didn’t recognize the number. No name. No context. And nothing since.
It could’ve been a prank. Some drunk cousin overhearing last night and messing with me. But something about it didn’t feel careless. It felt intentional. Calculated.
Like whoever it was… knew exactly what they were doing.
“Eden,” Harper called, snapping her fingers. “Earth to sulky maid of honor. Go try yours on.”
I blinked. “Right. Sorry.”
I followed the saleswoman to the back, where a sea of floor-length dresses hung in coordinated pastel shades. Mine was soft sage green, with a delicate sweetheart neckline and thin straps that crisscrossed in the back.
The kind of dress that whispered elegance, but screamed don’t slouch or breathe weird.
I changed quickly and stepped out into the fitting area, smoothing the fabric over my hips.
“You look beautiful,” Harper said immediately, her voice softening.
I offered a smile, though it didn’t quite reach.
Camille whistled. “Hot bridesmaid alert.”
The florist nodded approvingly. “It’s very flattering. Structured without looking stiff.”
Stiff.
I felt stiff.
Not in the dress.
In my head.
In my skin.
I moved toward the mirror, turning to the side. The dress fit well. Too well, maybe. The kind of well that made me wonder what it would look like falling to the floor. If someone else were watching. If someone wanted to take it off.
What’s your fantasy, Eden?
I caught my own eyes in the mirror—cheeks flushed, lips parted slightly, like I was halfway to telling a lie.
I fidgeted, tugging the hem unnecessarily.
“Do you want a different neckline?” the saleswoman asked gently.
I shook my head. “No. This is fine.”
Fine.
Safe.
Expected.
I hated how that word had become a second skin.
⸻
After the fitting, we walked a few blocks to a trendy brunch spot with citrus cocktails and little water pitchers filled with mint. I poked at a goat cheese omelet, only half listening as Harper chatted about napkin textures and seating charts.
My phone stayed face down beside my plate, but the message never left my mind.
What’s your fantasy, Eden?
The words echoed between my ribs. Not threatening. Not mocking.
Curious.
Commanding.
Like someone was waiting for an answer.
And finally, without letting myself overthink it, I excused myself to the bathroom, locked the door, and leaned against the sink.
My hands trembled slightly as I picked up the phone.
I opened the message.
Typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Paused.
Who is this?
Sent.
The bubbles popped—typing…
And then nothing.