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Bethany's POV

I stabbed the needle through the satin fabric, pulling the thread tight, holding my breath as the delicate material resisted before finally giving in. My fingers, calloused from years of work, moved instinctively through the cream colored silk. This wasn't just any dress, it was my dress. My wedding dress. The one I'd wear when I walked down the aisle to marry Mason in just six weeks.

"Perfect," I muttered to myself, running my fingers over the beadwork I'd just finished. "Well, almost."

I leaned back with a sigh, squinting at the mannequin draped in my dress. The bodice sparkled in the sunlight streaming through the studio windows, every bead catching the light. But something was off. I wasn't sure yet, but I could tell.

I squinted my eyes at the dress for a few more minutes until I finally got what the issue was.

"The neckline needs more structure," I said aloud, reaching for my sketchbook. Talking to myself had become second nature over the years. It made the quiet feel less empty, and honestly, who else could understand my vision better than me?

Flipping to the page with the original design, I studied the lines, the curves, the tiny notes scribbled in the margins. I'd dreamed of this moment for as long as I could remember—designing my own wedding dress, stitching every inch of it with my own hands. It felt symbolic, like I was sewing together pieces of my life, my love, my future.

My phone buzzed on the worktable, interrupting my thoughts. I glanced at the screen. Mason had texted.

Mason: Don't work too hard, Beth. I want you to actually have time to enjoy the wedding planning.

I smiled, my insides fluttering as I typed back quickly.

Me: Work hard now, so I can relax later. You know me."

I put the phone down, shaking my head fondly. Mason always worried about me overworking myself, but he also understood how much this meant to me. My wedding dress wasn't just about the wedding thoug. It was more about proving to myself that I was ready to take the leap, both personally and professionally.

I turned back to the dress, running my hands over the smooth fabric. "Okay, Bethany," I said, tightening my ponytail. "Focus."

But my mind wandered as it always did when I let my hands work on autopilot. I thought about Mason, about how steady and patient he'd been through all my late nights in the studio, my missed dinners, my scattered attention during conversations. He never complained, not once.

"Marrying you is the least I can do after all that," I joked under my breath, though the sentiment was real.

And then there was the other dream, the one that had nothing to do with white dresses or wedding bells. My career. My name on a label, my designs on runways. I could see it so clearly sometimes, like a movie playing in my head: models strutting in my gowns, the crowd applauding, the press writing about 'Bethany Clarke, the next big name in fashion.'

"Soon," I whispered, pulling the thread taut again. "Soon."

The sound of a clock ticking broke the silence, and I glanced up. It was nearly noon. I hadn't eaten breakfast—again.

"Oh God," I groaned, leaning back against the chair. If Mason found out about this he'd get so angry at me. And it wasn't like I was skipping meals on purpose anyways.

"I'll grab something in a minute," I told myself, even though I knew I wouldn't. The dress was too important. Every bead, every stitch had to be perfect.

Everything had to be the best design I've ever had yet.

As I worked, my mind wandered to the wedding day itself. I pictured Mason at the altar, his smile that made my knees weak, the way he always looked at me like I was the only person in the room. I pictured the guests—our families, our friends—gathered in the garden we'd chosen, the sun setting behind them, casting everything in a golden glow.

And me, walking toward him in this dress.

"Bethany Clarke," I said aloud, testing the name as if I hadn't done it a hundred times before. "Mrs. Bethany Clarke."

It sounded right.

I was so lost in my daydream that I didn't notice the sound of footsteps in the hall until the studio door creaked open a bit. My heart jumped, but when I turned, no one was there.

"Relax, Beth," I muttered, shaking my head. "It's just the wind or something." It was probably my lack of sleep these days that made me so jumpy.

I stood and stretched, yawning a bit as I finally tore myself away from the dress. My studio was small but cozy, crammed with bolts of fabric, spools of thread, and mannequins in various stages of undress. It was my haven, my happy place.

I glanced at the calendar pinned to the wall. Six weeks. Six weeks to finish the dress, finalize the guest list, choose the flowers, and—oh god—the cake. I hadn't even thought about the cake. It had to be perfect just like everything else.

"We'll figure it out," I said, though the "we" was mostly me. Mason was great. Perfect, even. But wedding details weren't his thing. He had been happy to let me take the lead, which was fine by me.

I walked over to the window and looked out at the city below. The streets were bustling, people rushing here and there, everyone chasing something. I wondered if they felt like I did, like they were on the brink of something big, something life-changing.

Something that could make them or break them. Literally.

"Time for a break," I decided, though I didn't move. Instead, I sat back down, picked up my sketchbook, and started drawing.

This time, it wasn't the wedding dress. It was something else, something bold and daring, with sharp lines and a touch of drama. A runway piece.

"Someday," I murmured to myself, my pencil flying across the page. "Someday."

I worked in silence, the only sounds the scratch of graphite on paper and the hum of the city outside. When I finally looked up, the sun was setting, making the room look start to look a little bit dark.

My stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn't eaten yet.

"Okay, okay," I murmured, setting the sketchbook aside. "Food. And coffee. Definitely coffee."

As I grabbed my coat and headed for the door, I glanced back at the dress one last time. It wasn't finished—not even close—but at least it was getting there.

And so was I.

I ran my hands through my hair and wore my coat before walking out of the studio, and immediately bumped into my mother, holding a tray of sandwiches and black coffee.

She steadied herself quickly, the coffee swaying a bit but not spilling.

"Mom," I breathed out with a short laugh, shaking my head and eyeing the food. "Where are you taking these to?"

"You. I know you haven't eaten since morning and you must be so hungry," she replied, smiling at me a bit and stretching the tray to me. "So I made you food."

"Oh mom, you shouldn't have," I murmured with a sigh, though I took a bite from a sandwich and collected the tray from her, heading to the kitchen to eat. "But thanks, mom. It means a lot, I was about to go out to get food."

"I don't see a need for that. I mean, after all im here and I can cook for you," she answered with a roll of her eyes. "So how far gone are you with the dress?" She inquired with a raised eyebrow making her forehead crease a little bit.

"It's almost done," I assured her, taking a seat on a kitchen stool and placing the tray on the island. I took a sip from the coffee. "Just a few touches here and there and it'll be done."

"You still won't let me see the dress?" She asked although she smiled a bit. And I smiled too. Mom and I looked alike a lot, like I was her carbon copy, a younger version of her. She was also my biggest supporter, the one who always pushed me to go for whatever I wanted.

"Mom," I groaned, setting the mug down. "You know I can't let you see it until im done."

"I know that, I'm just wondering why exactly," she replied and I sighed. Even I couldn't give her an exact reason why. Maybe it was because I was too scared, thinking they probably won't like it and I'd have to start all over again from the scratch. I didn't know yet. But I wasn't ready for anyone to see it just yet.

"You'll see it when it's time," I assured her with a sigh, finishing the last of my food before getting up and kissing her on the cheek. I went to the sink and washed my hand real quick.

"I'm going back to the studio," I informed her and kissed her on the forehead again. Love you, mom."