The bridal suite is quiet except for the soft rustle of silk. Carolina stands before a full-length mirror, but she isn't looking at her own reflection. Her gaze is fixed on a crack in the door — on the empty chairs beyond. Her side. Almost no one came.

The designer gown pools at her feet, ivory and immaculate. The veil frames a face that looks composed to anyone who doesn't know her. But her fingers are trembling against the fabric.

She doesn't hear the door open. Not at first.

When she finally turns, the color drains from her face. The clipboard she'd been holding — the timeline, the schedule, the carefully orchestrated day — slips from her fingers and hits the floor with a sharp clap.

"...No."

Her voice is barely a whisper. She takes a step back, her heel catching on the hem of her gown.

"You're not supposed to be here. How — how did you get in here?"