I refused to ask Derek for help.

I managed to hook the zipper with my fingers and pull it tight, the silk clinging to my frame.

I looked in the mirror, examining the faint yellowing bruise near my collarbone that the dress didn’t quite cover.

I used a light layer of concealer to soften the edges of the bruise, but I didn’t hide it completely.

I wanted it to look like an imperfect attempt at cover-up, something that would draw the eye of anyone who looked closely.

I brushed my hair back, letting it fall loose over my shoulders, and stepped out of the bathroom.

The grandfather clock chimed five times.

The first headlights swept across the frosted glass of the front door.

I walked to the kitchen, where Laura was transferring the first batch of hors d’oeuvres to a silver tray.

“They’re starting to arrive,” I said.

“Everything is ready on my end, Monica,” she said softly.

Derek came down the stairs, looking every bit the successful partner in his tailored charcoal suit.

He stopped at the bottom of the steps, his eyes moving over my dress.