The Gala of Da Silva

They had gone through at least twenty gown fittings, each one custom-made for the upcoming gala. The atelier was cluttered with fabric swatches and sketches, and already, the wedding gown for Lesley stood elegantly on display—ethereal, untouched.

Zoe stood on the fitting platform, framed by three tall mirrors: one in front and two flanking her sides. Her gaze lingered not on her own reflection, but on Lesley. Tall, slender—model-like. She looked radiant, almost unreal in the soft lighting. Something about her presence filled the room.

Zoe's chest swelled with a strange, tender emotion. Admiration. Affection. Pride. There was a gentle warmth in her heart she couldn't quite name, but it felt honest.

"You look stunning, Lesley," Zoe said softly, the words slipping out before she could think twice.

Lesley turned, startled, her eyes wide, lips parting slightly in surprise. Then came that unmistakable smile—a mix of playful curiosity and something softer.