Kelsey unzipped the pink plastic bag with a massive grin and held up my gown.
They hadn't just hemmed the bottom. To make the dress fit Kelsey’s "modern aesthetic" for her Friday night engagement party, the seamstress had taken scissors to my late grandmother’s 1962 Chantilly lace train, completely hacking off four feet of priceless heirloom fabric and cutting a deep V-neck right through the vintage pearl beadwork on the chest.
"See?" Kelsey beamed, holding the butchered dress against her body. "The tailor said the old lace at the bottom looked super dated anyway, so I told her to just trash the scraps and turn it into a cocktail-length reception dress for tomorrow night! Isn't it way cuter now?"
I couldn't breathe. My dad passed away four years ago, and that lace was the only physical piece of his mother’s legacy I had left to walk down the aisle with.
"You cut up Grandma Evelyn’s lace," I whispered, my fists clenching so hard my fingernails dug into my palms. "And threw it in the trash?"
"Don't start guilt-tripping your sister!" Diane barked, stepping between us. "You make two hundred thousand a year as a lawyer, Maya! Go to David’s Bridal tonight and buy something off the rack, or wear the one I put in the bag for you. Honestly, your materialism is disgusting. If you make a scene about this and stress Kelsey out before her gala tomorrow night, don't bother expecting me to walk down the aisle at your wedding on Saturday."
Both of them stood there waiting for me to collapse on the floor crying, or beg for the scraps back. That’s how it always went in our house—Kelsey took whatever she wanted, Mom shielded her, and I was expected to swallow it to "keep the peace."
Instead, I pulled out my iPhone, snapped three high-resolution photos of Kelsey holding the mutilated gown, and took a video of Diane standing next to her.
"What are you doing?" Kelsey frowned, lowering the dress. "Delete that! Ethan’s family thinks this dress was custom-made for me in Paris! Nobody can see it before tomorrow night!"
I didn't answer her. I looked straight at my mother. "Just so I have this completely clear, Mom—you took this dress out of a locked garment bag without my permission, transported it across state lines to Georgia, and instructed a tailor to destroy $16,000 worth of insured property?"
Diane scoffed, crossing her arms. "I’m your mother, and it was in my closet under my roof. What are you gonna do, Maya? Call the cops on your own family forty-eight hours before your wedding? Grow up."
I didn't say another word. I turned around, walked out the front door, and got into my car.
My hands were shaking so badly I could barely start the engine, so I called Luke first. When I told him what they had done to my grandmother’s dress, my usually gentle fiancé went dead silent with rage.
"Maya," Luke said quietly. "Don't go to a bridal shop. Call Detective Miller at CMPD, and pull up the personal articles insurance policy we signed last month. Then check your email—because ten minutes ago, the wedding planner called me about a $9,500 catering upgrade charge that your mom just tried to put on our venue invoice."
I blinked, pulling up my wedding planner’s email on my phone screen—and when I opened the attached PDF invoice, I realized stealing my dress was only half of what my mother and sister had planned for this weekend.
