The true exhaustion hit during the dress fittings. Amara stood on a pedestal for four hours as three French tailors argued over the architectural integrity of her train.
"I can't breathe," Amara whispered as a corset was cinched. "I feel like I'm being packaged for shipping."
Amira leaned against the doorframe, sipping a bright green smoothie and scrolling through her phone. She looked effortlessly cool in her leather jacket, her red hair a vibrant contrast to the sea of white lace in the room.
"You look like a very expensive marshmallow, sister," Amira teased, her eyes dancing with mischief. "If you trip on that train, Julian's going to have to tackle you just to keep you from rolling down the aisle."
"Oh, shut up," Amara laughed, though she looked ready to cry. "At least I'm not sneaking out of high-society galas to go to 'dive bars' with mysterious architects. How is Leo, anyway? I noticed you've been 'working late' at the foundation every night this week."
