Eight days before my wedding, I took a 911 call from a woman who told me she was fine three times in less than thirty seconds. Her voice was smooth and almost cheerful, but a television was blasting behind her, and beneath the television I could hear a man repeating her name with the slow, irritated patience of someone who wanted her to hang up.

Rachel looked at me like I had lost my mind. "Claire, no. Absolutely not. I can drive to the boutique in town. We can buy a off-the-rack sample dress. We have two hours!"

"The boutique closes at noon on Saturdays," I replied flatly. "And we don't have time. If I delay this wedding, Natalie wins. She wants me to hide in this room crying. She wants Daniel to stand at the altar waiting while my family whispers that I had a mental breakdown."

I walked over to the chandelier and yanked the blue dress down.

"Look at this seam, Rachel," I said, pointing to the torn side zipper. "She ripped this on purpose before hanging it here. She wanted me to feel like I couldn't fit into my own skin."

Rachel stared at me, seeing the absolute, unyielding steel in my eyes. The panicked dispatcher was gone. The quiet, accommodating younger sister was gone.

"You're serious," Rachel whispered.

"I am going to walk down that aisle," I said. "And I am going to marry the man I love. But I am not doing it as a victim."

For the next forty-five minutes, Rachel used her pediatric nursing skills and a safety kit to perform emergency surgery on a seventeen-year-old piece of polyester.

We couldn't fix the zipper, so Rachel used heavy-duty white medical tape to bind my ribcage, flattening my torso enough to squeeze into the narrow bodice. She took safety pins from her emergency kit and pinned the torn straps, lining them with white satin ribbon from the bouquet wraps to hide the frayed edges.

The dress was painfully tight. Every breath I took felt like a shallow gasp. The bottom hem ended three inches above my ankles because I had grown an inch since high school, exposing my bare feet.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror.

I looked ridiculous. The metallic blue satin was wrinkled, the dried coffee stain was visible beneath the ribbon pinning, and the dress clung to me like a cruel parody of a bride.

Rachel wiped a tear from her cheek. "Claire... I hate this. I hate her for doing this to you."

"Don't," I said, holding myself upright despite the crushing tightness around my chest. "This isn't a dress, Rachel. It's evidence."

A knock sounded at the cottage door.

It was the venue coordinator. "Claire? Ten minutes until processional! The musicians are setting up!"

I picked up my bouquet of white roses, turned to Rachel, and held out my hand. "Let's go."

As we walked out of the cottage toward the barn, the autumn wind whipped the cheap satin against my legs. I could hear the string quartet playing in the distance. Guests were seated on the wooden pews, chatting happily, enjoying the crisp October sunshine.

Standing near the entrance of the barn was my mother, wearing a dark green mother-of-the-bride gown that cost more than my original wedding dress.

When she turned around and saw me walking up the gravel path, her jaw dropped. The color completely drained from her face.

"Claire?!" she shrieked, rushing forward and grabbing my arm. "What on earth are you wearing?! Is this a joke?!"

I looked at her coldly. "Ask Natalie."

"What are you talking about?!" Mom stammered, her eyes darting frantically toward the seated guests who were beginning to turn around. "Where is your gown?! You can't walk down the aisle looking like a street vagrant! What will Daniel's family think?!"

"Natalie took my key," I said, my voice razor-sharp. "She stole my dress, my veil, and my shoes. She left this in the closet with a note telling me to wear what I'm worth."

My mother froze. But instead of rage toward my sister, I saw panic in her eyes—panic for her own reputation.

"No... no, there must be a misunderstanding," Mom whispered frantically, clutching her pearls. "Natalie wouldn't do that! She's been so stressed lately with Evan... Claire, please, we have to postpone! We can say you got sick! You cannot let people see you like this!"

"Get out of my way, Mom," I said smoothly.