BRIDAL SHOWER
The living room of the Palazzo Reale's top suite sparkles in front of me, a pastel dream designed for a celebration I never asked for. Soft pink and ivory roses overflow from crystal vases, their lovely fragrance blending with the crisp scent of chilled champagne. Delicate ribbons hang from the ceiling, catching the warm light from carefully placed lamps. A table is weighed down with fancy pastries and shiny flutes of bubbly. It’s stunning, almost painfully so, and I can’t help but feel like an outsider in this feminine wonderland.
I smooth the emerald silk of my cocktail dress, the fabric gliding over my skin. It feels cool and slick, a sharp contrast to the rising heat of anxiety inside me. My mother’s voice echoes in my mind: "It would be rude to Lysander’s family if the
