The next afternoon, I had my final fitting for my wedding dress.

It was my grandmother's. Ivory French lace, every flower stitched by hand.

Seventy years ago, she wore it to marry my grandfather.

Forty years ago, my mother wore it when she walked into our family home in Sicily.

Now it was my turn.

"Miss Rossi, you look breathtaking," the tailor said, carefully adjusting the train. "This dress was made for you."

I looked at myself in the mirror. She was right. It was beautiful.

This dress held the love of three generations of Rossi women. And I was about to betray everything it stood for.

"The veil is the perfect length," the tailor said, picking up the matching heirloom. My mother had embroidered roses on it herself. Every stitch a prayer for her daughter's happiness.

Just then, the door opened.

Massimo walked in. Cara was right behind him. They were back from the cake tasting. Massimo was holding a box of samples.

"Wow," Cara said, stopping short when she saw me. Her eyes went from awe to jealousy, then she quickly masked it with praise. "Caterina, you're beautiful! That dress... it's so special." Her voice was tight.

Massimo walked to my side. For a second, his eyes were genuinely stunned.

"My bride," he whispered, kissing my cheek. "Perfect."

Cara's smile faltered. She recovered quickly, forcing a bright, brittle smile. "Oh, by the way, Caterina, thank you for letting me be your maid of honor." She pulled out her phone and swiped to a photo. "Massimo got me a dress. I promise I'll be the best maid of honor!"

She turned the screen to me.

I saw a picture of a long white gown. Low-cut, floor-length, covered in delicate beadwork.

It looked almost exactly like a wedding dress, just without a veil.

"A very pretty... maid of honor dress," I said, my eyes cold.

Cara's smile faltered. "Yeah, Massimo said I should dress up for such an important day..."

I put down the headpiece I was holding and looked right at her.

"Tell me, Cara."

"What?"

"Are you the maid of honor? Or are you the understudy?"

The air went still. Cara's face flushed red. Her eyes started to glisten.

"Caterina... I... I just wanted..." Her voice trembled. "I just want your wedding to be perfect... I wanted to look nice for it..."

She turned to Massimo, tears already falling. "Did I do something wrong? I shouldn't wear something so formal?"

Massimo frowned at me. "Caterina, it's just a dress." His voice was sharp. "She's not going to outshine the bride."

I didn't answer. I just stared at him. He shifted, uncomfortable under my gaze.

"Come on, it's just a white dress," he said, annoyed. "It's not a big deal."

Cara started crying harder. "It's all my fault!" she wailed, rushing toward me. "Caterina, I'm so sorry!"

She moved too fast. Her foot caught on something.

"Ah!"

She lost her balance and fell forward. Her hands shot out, grabbing for the first thing she could reach. The veil.

A sickening rip echoed in the silent room.

I looked down.

The rose-embroidered veil my mother made, the one the tailor was just holding, was torn. A long gash right through the antique lace.

"Oh my god!" Cara sat on the floor, tears streaming down her face. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to!" She looked at the piece of lace in her hand and cried even harder. "I really didn't mean to... I'm so clumsy..."

Massimo immediately knelt to help her up. "Cara, are you hurt? Did you fall hard?" His first instinct was to check on her. Not the ruined family heirloom.

"I'm fine... but Caterina's veil..." Cara sobbed. "It's all my fault..."

Massimo finally glanced at the lace on the floor. Then he looked at me. "It was an accident," he said, his voice flat. "We can have it fixed. Or I'll buy you a new one."

Buy a new one.

He said he would buy a new one. This piece of our family history, our legacy, was just another product to him.

"It's fine," I said, my voice shaking. "It's just a veil."

I bent down and picked up the shattered pieces of lace. Every thread was a silent accusation.

"Massimo, my hand hurts," Cara cried out, showing him a small scrape on her palm.

And Massimo, like always, chose her. He scooped her up and carried her toward his study, bellowing for one of his men to get a doctor.

My eyes burned, but the tears wouldn't fall. A second later, my phone vibrated.

A message from an encrypted number.

[All is in place. I am waiting for you, my queen.]