Chapter 156 Feeling Like a Fairytale Princess
Bella
Somewhere in the second week, the dress arrives. A dress arrived last week, but it just didn't feel right, so we made some changes, and now, finally, it's here. It comes carried in by the dressmaker herself, arms full and posture reverent, like she knows exactly what she’s holding and what it’s meant to become on me. We meet in the sitting room off the east hall again, sunlight spilling across the floorboards in long bands that make everything feel staged on purpose. Ashlyn is here too, of course, hovering like she might levitate straight into the fabric. Red stands near the window, arms crossed, gaze sharp and measuring, not the dress but me.
“This is the full design,” the dressmaker says when she sees me. “With room still, if you need it.”
I step closer. The fabric catches the light immediately. I didn't like the white last time, so this one is gold. The colour like sunlight held just before dusk. The colour shifts as she lifts it, darker where it folds, brighter where it stretches smooth. My breath leaves me before I think to hold it. Ashlyn makes a noise that sounds like she’s been punched in the chest.
“Oh. Oh no. That’s—” She stops, presses her hands together. “That’s unfair.”
The dressmaker smiles faintly and lays the gown out across the table so I can see it clearly. The bodice is structured but not rigid, shaped to fit without squeezing, the neckline soft and clean, dipping just enough to feel elegant. The fabric layers sheer gold over deeper tones, creating an appearance of depth rather than shine. The skirt is where it changes. It falls in long, fluid panels that promise movement, each layer designed to shift with me, to catch air and light. There’s subtle detailing worked into the seams, embroidery so fine it disappears until you’re close enough to notice it’s there, patterns that feel grown rather than placed.
“This will move,” the dressmaker says, reading my expression. “It won’t fight you.”
I nod slowly. “Good.”
She gestures toward the screen. “When you’re ready.”
I change, slipping out of my clothes and into the gown carefully. The dressmaker’s hands are efficient and gentle, adjusting straps, smoothing fabric, tightening something just enough that it feels secure without being restrictive. When she steps back, I turn toward the mirror and for a second, my brain doesn’t catch up. Then I smile, bright and unfiltered. The dress fits like it was waiting for me. The gold warms my skin instead of washing it out, the colour echoing the feeling inside my chest. The bodice holds without pressing. The skirt falls in a way that makes me want to move just to see what it will do. Ashlyn is already behind me, hands on my shoulders.
“Turn,” she orders.
I turn, and the skirt follows, just like I've read in fairytales.
“Oh,” Ashlyn breathes. “Oh, that’s good.”
She grabs my hands and spins me before I can protest, a full dramatic twirl that sends the fabric flaring out in a soft arc around my legs. The dress moves exactly as it promised, catching the light and settling again without tangling or pulling.
“It's perfect,” I say, laughing a little as I steady myself.
“You look like a princess,” Ashlyn squeals.
Red watches my reflection closely. “You do look beautiful.”
“This is exactly what I pictured,” I smile at the dressmaker.
She nods, satisfied, with a warm smile. “I'm glad you like it.”
She steps to the side table and carefully lifts two options, laying them out one at a time. A veil, sheer and light, embroidered at the edges with the same fine detailing as the gown. It’s beautiful, soft and traditional in a way that feels almost tempting. Then she lifts the second piece. A golden tiara, delicately worked into a slim circlet that curves as if by hand. Set into it are small red gemstones, deep and rich, catching the light like embers. I don’t even have to question the choice.
“That one,” I say.
Ashlyn grins. “Of course you’re choosing the crown.”
“It’s not a crown,” I reply. “It’s… just a little extra twinkle.”
The dressmaker carefully sets it into my hair. The weight is barely there, just enough to remind me it exists. When I look back at the mirror, the effect settles into place all at once. Gold and warmth. Strength without sharpness. Something regal, yes, but lived-in, like it belongs to movement and music. I lift my chin, just a little and just like that, the wedding stops feeling theoretical. It’s not a date or a plan anymore. It’s a picture, a body, the perfect fairytale moment waiting to happen.
Ashlyn presses a hand to her mouth. “I’m going to cry,” she announces. “I’m absolutely going to cry.”
“You'll survive,” Red says flatly.
Ashlyn points at her. “Barely.”
The dressmaker steps back, eyes shining just a little. “I’ll make the final adjustments,” she says. “It will be ready when you are.”
“Thank you,” I tell her.
I mean it more than I can say.
After she leaves, I stay in the dress longer than necessary, walking the length of the room, turning again, lifting the skirt just enough to see how it behaves. Ashlyn insists on another spin. Red times how long it takes me to cross the room and back, nodding like she’s confirmed something important. Eventually, I change back into my clothes, the dress folded away carefully, but the feeling stays. When I return to my office later, I read the vows again, this time with the image of the dress in my head, the gold and warmth and movement. One sentence shifts. One word changes. It feels closer to what I want to say now, but I want it to be perfect. When I announce to the world how deep my love runs for Damien, I want them to be able to feel it in every word. When I finally leave the office, the light has shifted again, and the world feels like it’s leaning forward with me, not pulling me along. The second week keeps going and now I know exactly where I’m walking.