CASSAIN I have a rule when it comes to wedding preparations: keep it clean, precise, and dignified.Today, that rule is being tested.I’m in Maison D’Or, the finest tailor in the city, white marble floors, polished brass fixtures, mirrors everywhere you can see every angle of yourself, and soft classical music that whispers “wealth” without needing to shout it. I’ve been looking forward to this: the moment I finally choose the suit that will say to the world, I am marrying Evelessa, and yes, I own every second of this room.I’ve walked past racks of suits lined up like soldiers on parade, fabrics shining under the lights. My tailor, a man named François, has been hovering politely, making notes, asking questions. It’s perfect. Peaceful. Until my phone buzzes.I glance down.A text from one of my so-called “business partners,” the type of man who apparently thinks being rich also makes you creative in problem-solving.“Congrats on the engagement! Sending a little celebratory entertain
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