The next morning, Mara’s off-key singing drifts down the hallway, scraping at my ears. I groan and bury my head under the blanket.“Mara, stop torturing the neighborhood!” I shout.Her laughter floats back. “Get up, sleepyhead. Big day ahead.”I roll out of bed like a zombie, feet dragging, and find her at the kitchen counter, hair in a messy bun, coffee in one hand, phone in the other.“You look like you’re plotting world domination,” I mutter.“Not the world,” she says, smirking. “Just your wardrobe.”I freeze. “Oh no.”“Oh yes,” she grins. “If we’re doing this, we do it right. No sweatpants, no sad-girl hair. You’re going to that wedding like you own the place.”I slump onto a chair. “This is a terrible idea.”Mara sets a mug of coffee in front of me. “No, it’s brilliant. Ethan sees you walk in with confidence, with his boss no less. He’ll choke on his champagne.”I glare at her. “You really enjoy this, don’t you?”She shrugs. “A little. But also… you need to remember who you were
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