The fitting

If the contracts were the chains, the dress was the shroud.

Three days before the wedding, the most famous bridal designer in the country arrived at the estate. Her convoy of black vehicles rolled through the iron gates just after dawn, their tires whispering over the gravel like a funeral procession. She brought with her three assistants, all dressed in severe black, their hair pulled back tightly, faces blank and professional. They moved with the cold efficiency of surgeons preparing an operating room.

They did not come to consult Mary.

They came to fit her.

The drawing room had been stripped of warmth and familiarity. The furniture was pushed to the walls, draped in white sheets like corpses under linen. Tall mirrors had been wheeled in and positioned at cruel angles, multiplying Mary’s reflection until she was surrounded by herself. Pale. Thin. Trembling. There was no escape from her own face.

In the center of the room stood a headless mannequin, and draped over it was the dress.

Mary’s breath caught painfully in her throat.

It was magnificent in a way that felt violent. Heavy ivory silk satin cascaded down in rigid folds, catching the light with a dull, oppressive sheen. Thousands of seed pearls were hand embroidered across the bodice, each one perfectly placed, each one cold and unyielding. They shimmered like unblinking eyes. The skirt flared wide and formal, designed not for movement but for display.

The corset was unmistakable. Thick. Stiff. Reinforced with bone and steel. A device meant to shape, restrain, and break.

“This way,” Elena said briskly, already circling Mary as though assessing livestock.

Mary’s feet felt rooted to the floor.

“Strip.”

The word cracked through the air.

Mary hesitated for only a second before her hands moved mechanically to the buttons of her dress. She had learned long ago that hesitation only invited punishment. She folded her clothes neatly over a chair, her fingers shaking, until she stood in her undergarments under the harsh scrutiny of strangers.

The assistants descended on her immediately.

They did not look her in the eyes.

They did not speak to her.

They spoke about her.

“She’s lost weight since the measurements were taken,” the designer murmured, irritation sharpening her voice. “Look at her ribs. This will not do.”

“The bust has dropped,” one assistant added, tugging at fabric. “We will need padding. A generous amount.”

“Elena warned Mr. Arthur this might happen,” another said quietly. “Stress has a way of ruining a silhouette.”

Mary burned with humiliation. She wrapped her arms around herself instinctively, but hands pulled them away.

“No slouching,” Elena snapped. “Posture is everything.”

The dress was lifted from the mannequin with reverence and effort. It took all three assistants to carry it. As they raised it over Mary’s head, she realized with a spike of dread just how heavy it was. When it settled onto her shoulders, the weight forced a gasp from her lungs.

The fabric pressed down on her collarbones. The bodice clung instantly, unyielding.

“Hold your breath,” someone instructed.

Mary obeyed.

The laces began to tighten.

At first it was only uncomfortable. Then it became painful. The corset closed in inch by inch, squeezing her waist, compressing her ribs. Her organs felt displaced, shoved upward and inward. She could feel her heartbeat in her throat.

Her vision blurred.

“I can’t,” she whispered, panic creeping into her voice. “I can’t breathe.”

“Of course you can,” Elena replied coolly. “Women have been doing this for centuries.”

The laces pulled tighter.

Mary gasped, clawing weakly at the air as her lungs refused to fully expand. The room tilted. Dark spots danced at the edges of her vision.

Then a familiar voice cut through the haze.

“Stop.”

Arthur stood in the doorway, his presence instantly commanding the room. He wore a tailored suit despite the early hour, his hair immaculate, his expression sharp with calculation. He looked at Mary not as a father looks at a daughter, but as a man inspects a transaction nearing completion.

He approached slowly, circling her.

“Don’t faint,” he said flatly. “It ruins the moment.”

Mary’s chest burned as she sucked in shallow breaths.

“Beauty requires sacrifice, Mary,” Arthur continued. “Silas expects excellence. You are not embarrassing this family at the final hour.”

The designer smiled eagerly. “The waist is perfect now, Arthur. Exquisite. She looks like something preserved.”

“Good,” Arthur said. “That is exactly what he wants.”

Mary stared at her reflection.

She barely recognized herself.

Her skin looked translucent, stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. Her eyes were too large, too bright, filled with fear she could not hide. The dress transformed her into something delicate and unreal. An object. A relic.

An antique doll.

She tried to lift her arm and failed. The corset locked her in place, posture forced, spine rigid. She could not bend. She could not twist. She could only stand and endure.

“She belongs to Silas now,” Arthur said calmly, as though stating a fact as mundane as the weather. “Make sure she looks the part.”

The veil was brought forward next.

Ten feet of lace, intricate and heavy, embroidered with floral patterns that crawled like vines. When it was pinned into her hair, the weight pulled her head backward, straining her neck. The lace fell over her face, muting the world into a pale blur.

Mary felt sealed off. Distant. Buried.

“She’s perfect,” Arthur said.

For the first time in her life, there was pride in his voice.

It made her stomach churn.

As the assistants adjusted the hem and smoothed the fabric, Mary’s thoughts spiraled. The pearls dug into her skin with every breath. Each one felt like a reminder of her worth in currency. She was expensive. She was purchased. She was being wrapped in luxury to disguise the violence of the exchange.

No one asked how she felt.

No one cared.

Two hours later, when they finally unlaced her and let the dress fall away, Mary nearly collapsed. Her legs trembled violently as she was guided back to her room. When the door closed, she sank onto the edge of her bed, gasping, clutching her chest.

Her torso was a roadmap of red welts and bruises. Angry marks bloomed along her ribs and waist where the corset had bitten into her skin.

She pressed a hand over her mouth to muffle a sob.

It became painfully clear then that the wedding was not about love or family or celebration. It was a performance. A spectacle. A transfer of ownership dressed up as tradition.

She was not a bride.

She was an offering.