Chapter 35: Something Old, Something True

The bridal salon was everything Eliza Darcy usually avoided.

Frilly curtains. Blush pink wallpaper. A faint scent of peonies and expectation.

And yet, here she was.

Charlotte had insisted. "Just try one dress for me. You don't even have to like it. You can scowl the entire time."

Eliza had scowled. And tried on three.

Now she stood on the small platform, fabric rustling like nerves around her ankles.

She stared at herself in the mirror.

The dress was objectively stunning—ivory silk, hand-beaded details, a dramatic backline that made the stylist practically swoon.

But she felt like a mannequin in someone else's fantasy.

Her arms crossed slowly.

Charlotte raised a brow from the couch. "Not the one?"

Eliza didn't even answer.

Charlotte stood, walked up beside her, and looked in the mirror too.

"You know," she said quietly, "you don't have to be the kind of bride they write articles about."

Eliza's voice was low. "What kind is that?"

"Picture-perfect. Softened. Owned."

Eliza met her gaze in the mirror.

Charlotte smiled. "You just have to be you."

Later that night, Jan came by their apartment, to drop off fabric swatches and—surprisingly—a box.

Will was out. It was just the two of them.

"I brought you something," Jan said, setting the box on the counter like it might detonate.

"What is it?"

Jan exhaled. "My mother's."

Eliza froze.

Jan opened the lid.

Inside was a delicate lace veil, antique and ethereal, the kind that held stories in its threads.

"It's not your style," Jan said quickly. "I know that. But… she always wanted it to be passed on. She told me before she died. So I'm passing it. No pressure."

Eliza reached out slowly. The lace was weightless but carried something heavy.

Not guilt.

Legacy.

"I never met her," Eliza said softly.

Jan smiled. "But you've loved her son. That counts."

Eliza didn't cry.

But she sat down, veil in her lap, hands still.

Jan sat beside her, folding her hands, too.

"You don't have to wear it," she said gently. "But maybe keep it with you. Just so you remember—this doesn't have to look like anyone else's version of love. Just yours."

That night, Will came home to find her curled up on the couch in one of his hoodies, the veil draped carefully over the back of a chair.

"Everything okay?" he asked.

Eliza looked up at him.

Her smile was small. Honest.

"I tried on dresses."

"And?"

"They weren't me."

He nodded. "Then we'll find something that is."

She walked over and tucked herself under his arm, her voice quiet against his chest.

"I don't need the lace. I don't need the dress. I just want the truth."

Will kissed her forehead. "What truth?"

"That I get to do this… as me. Not some softened version."

He held her tighter. "You never had to change for me, Eliza."

She looked up.

"I know that now."

Later, when the lights were off and they lay in bed, she turned toward him in the dark.

"I've been thinking," she murmured.

Will ran his fingers gently along her hip. "Dangerous."

She smiled.

"I think I want to wear the veil."

He looked at her, surprised.

"Really?"

"Yes. But not because it's tradition. Because someone who loved you gave it to me. And I've never had anything old that meant something true."

He reached for her hand, kissed her fingers one by one.

"You've always had me," he said.

She smiled.

"And now I know what that means."