Chapter 271. The Bridal Preparation

The atelier in Mayfair was a temple of silence and silk. It smelled of ozone from a discreet steamer, of fresh linen, and an unsettlingly clean floral scent Sabatine couldn’t identify. Racks of gowns, spectral in their garment bags, lined the walls like patient ghosts. The air hummed with a restrained, expensive expectation that made the back of her neck prickle.

Sabatine stood in the centre of the plush, dove-grey carpet, arms crossed over a simple silk camisole and tailored trousers, feeling like a tactical asset that had been deployed to the wrong coordinates. Jessica and Gina, the villa keeper’s wife who had become an unexpected friend, buzzed around her with the focused energy of a bomb disposal unit, while the head designer, a man named Philippe with the quiet gravitas of a surgeon, observed from a chaise lounge.

“The A-line with the illusion lace,” Jessica murmured, holding up a sketch on a tablet. “It’s timeless, elegant, with a hint of…”

“Vulnerability,”Sabatine finished flatly. “It has a lot of… skin.”

“It’s not skin,it’s French tulle,” Gina corrected gently, her hands already pulling a different, heavily beaded gown from a rack. “This one has structure. Armour-like.”

Sabatine eyed the crystalline bodice.“It looks like it weighs more than I do. I’d be a slow-moving, glittering target.”

Anton, who had been banished to a discreet anteroom with a promise of champagne, was not supposed to be watching. But a carved wooden screen, meant to provide a modicum of privacy, had a conveniently narrow gap. He’d told himself he’d just peek, to ensure she hadn’t bolted for the fire escape.

What he saw stole the breath from his lungs.

It wasn’t a specific dress. It was her. Surrounded by the frothy, extravagant evidence of a ritual she clearly found baffling, she was a study in stark, beautiful resistance. Her posture was straight, but not with the ready tension of an operative; it was with the enduring patience of a soldier enduring a pointless, mandatory parade. She hated this. The attention, the fuss, the very concept of being the glittering centrepiece of a day.

Yet, she was here. For him. Because he wanted this celebration, this public declaration. And that sacrifice, her quiet endurance in this alien world of chiffon and seed pearls, was more dazzling to him than any dress could ever be.

He watched as Philippe, sensing her distress, glided forward. He spoke too softly for Anton to hear, but his manner was calming, respectful. He didn’t push a gown. He asked a question.

Sabatine uncrossed her arms, her expression turning thoughtful. She said something, gesturing vaguely at her own torso, then out the window towards the street. Philippe nodded, a slow smile spreading across his face. He clapped his hands once, sharply, and his assistants sprang into action, whisking away the beaded monstrosity and the lace-trimmed confection.

They returned with a garment bag of a different colour—not white, but a soft, moonstone grey. Philippe unzipped it himself.

The dress that emerged was not a cloud. It was a statement. It was fashioned from a heavy, liquid-looking silk crepe, the colour of a London sky just before dawn. The cut was severe and elegant: a high, sculpted neckline that mirrored the column of her throat, long sleeves that hugged her arms to the wrist, a body that flowed in a clean, uninterrupted line from shoulder to hem without a hint of a train. There were no sequins, no lace, no frills. Only the magnificent, uncompromising drape of the fabric and the precision of its tailoring.

Sabatine’s guarded expression vanished. She stared.

“Try it,”Philippe said, simply.

She disappeared behind a screen with Gina. There was a long silence. Then she emerged.

Anton’s hand tightened on the edge of the screen.

The dress did not wear her; she commanded it. It was the sartorial equivalent of her black sapphire ring—beautiful not in spite of its severity, but because of it. It highlighted her lean strength, her elegant lines, the quiet, formidable power of her. It was a gown for a queen who ruled from the war room, not the ballroom. The high neck was both regal and protective, the long sleeves a graceful echo of the tactical gear she’d shed. It was utterly, perfectly Sabatine.

She walked to the centre of the room and turned slowly before the trifold mirror. She didn’t primp or preen. She assessed. She moved her shoulders, lifted her arms slightly, testing the range of motion. A critical, professional gleam entered her eye.

“The weight is good,” she said to Philippe. “Distribution is even. No impediments to lateral movement.”

Jessica stifled a laugh behind her hand.Gina beamed.

“It is designed for a woman who needs to breathe,and to act,” Philippe said, a note of pride in his voice.

Sabatine met her own gaze in the mirror. For a long moment, she was silent. The reluctance, the resistance, had melted away. In its place was a dawning recognition. This wasn’t a bride's costume. This was her, elevated. This was her armour for a day of peace.

A small, private smile touched her lips. She gave a single, firm nod. “This is the one.”

The relief and joy in the room were palpable. Jessica clapped her hands together, tears in her eyes. Gina nodded vigorously. Philippe looked supremely satisfied.

It was then that Sabatine’s eyes flicked to the carved screen. She couldn’t see him, but she knew. She always knew. Her smile deepened, turning secret, meant for him alone. She gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of her head, as if to say, I can’t believe you’re spying, you sentimental fool.

Anton’s heart swelled until he thought it might break his ribs. The sight of her—resolute, breathtaking, and finally at peace with the role—in the dress that was so unequivocally her, was a gift beyond measure. She had not surrendered to the bridal industrial complex; she had conquered it, on her own terms. And in doing so, she had given him a vision of their wedding day more beautiful than any fantasy he could have conjured: not of a blushing bride, but of his partner, his equal, standing beside him, clad in quiet, glorious strength.

He slipped away from the screen before he could be caught, retreating to his champagne, his mind seared with the image. The reluctant preparation was over. She had found her uniform for their greatest mission yet: the public, joyous declaration of their private, hard-won war. And he had never been more dazzled, or more deeply, humbly in love.

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