A Quiet Warning

VANESSA

"Arms up, little man," the tailor instructed, his voice gentle as he knelt before Fabian.

My six-year-old son obediently raised his arms, standing straight and tall on the small platform. His reflection multiplied in the three-way mirror, showing his serious expression from every angle. The charcoal gray tuxedo jacket hung slightly loose on his small frame, but I could already see how handsome he would look once it was properly fitted.

"Is this how I stand when I hold the rings, Mama?" Fabian asked, practicing his solemn ring bearer posture.

I smiled, warmth spreading through my chest. "Just like that, baby. Uncle Leo will be so proud."

The boutique was quiet this afternoon, with just us and the elderly tailor who worked with practiced efficiency. Leo had insisted on using this particular shop—apparently, the Moonstone Pack had been getting their formal wear here for generations.