The stylist Benson hired came the next morning a sharp, no-nonsense woman named Priya who took one look at me and declared, "We're starting from scratch."
I didn't argue. For the first time, someone was measuring me, fitting me, asking my opinion on colors and cuts instead of deciding for me and forcing me into whatever was left over. It felt foreign. Good, but foreign, like trying on a life that wasn't supposed to belong to me.
"What colors do you gravitate toward?" Priya asked, flipping through fabric swatches.
"Navy," I said without thinking, remembering the sketch from the night before. "Deep navy, with maybe gold accents."
She raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Good instincts. Most brides your age go straight for red or white, thinking it makes a statement. Navy is elegant. Confident. It says you don't need to shout to be noticed."
I almost told her I designed the piece myself, but I held back. It felt too personal to hand over to a stranger, even a kind one.
Over the following days, etiquette lessons filled my mornings, how to hold a champagne flute without looking nervous, how to greet business partners, how to navigate a room full of people who'd already decided who I was before I opened my mouth. My afternoons were spent with Priya, fittings and fabric and color palettes.
It was during one of these fittings, standing on a small platform while Priya pinned fabric at my waist, that Sasha Crew walked into my life.
She burst through my bedroom door without knocking, dressed in a bright yellow sundress, sunglasses pushed up into her curly hair, looking like sunshine had taken human form. "So you're the mysterious wife everyone's whispering about!"
Priya nearly swallowed a pin in surprise. I nearly fell off the platform.
"I'm Sasha," the girl said, flopping onto my bed like she owned the place. "Damien's cousin. Well, second cousin, technically, but nobody in this family does math right so we just say cousin. I heard there was a wedding, heard my dear emotionally constipated cousin didn't even bother showing up, and I had to come see the woman who married into this mess anyway."
I blinked at her, caught between laughing and panicking. "Silveria," I managed. "Silveria Hitler. Well... Crew, now, I suppose."
"Silveria," Sasha repeated, tasting the name. "Cute. Okay, Silveria, tell me everything. Is Damien as much of a robot in person as everyone says? Does he ever smile? I've genuinely never seen it happen and I've known him since we were kids."
"I've barely seen him," I admitted. "He's been away most of the week."
"Sounds about right." Sasha rolled her eyes, though there was fondness buried under the exasperation. "He buries himself in work so he doesn't have to deal with people. Trust me, it's not personal. He does that to everyone, not just you."
Something about her easy honesty made the tightness in my chest loosen a little. For the first time since the wedding, I felt like I was talking to someone who saw me as a person and not a headline or a problem to manage.
"Can I be honest?" Sasha said, sitting up straighter. "When I heard he got married in some rushed alliance thing, I expected some cold, calculating socialite. You're... not that. You seem sweet. Kind of soft, actually, in a good way."
"That's not usually a compliment where I'm from," I said before I could stop myself.
Sasha's expression shifted, something more serious flickering behind her eyes. "Where are you from?"
I hesitated, unsure how much to share. But there was something so open about her that I found myself saying more than I planned. "The Hitler house wasn't kind to me. I was adopted. My sister was the golden child, I was just... there. Convenient when they needed me, invisible otherwise."
"And now you're stuck in a contract marriage with a man who barely speaks," Sasha said flatly. "Wow. Rough year."
Despite myself, I laughed a real laugh, the first one in longer than I could remember.
"I like you," Sasha declared, grinning. "You're stuck with me now, by the way. I'm going to be your best friend whether you like it or not. Fair warning."
"I don't think I mind that," I admitted.
Priya, who had been quietly finishing the pinning during all of this, finally spoke up. "If the socializing is done, I need Mrs. Crew to hold still for another five minutes."
Sasha saluted and hopped off the bed, wandering over to inspect the fabric on the platform. Her eyes widened. "Wait. Is this the gala dress? This is gorgeous. Who designed this?"
"I did," I admitted quietly.
Sasha's jaw dropped. "You designed this? Silveria. This is stunning. Have you ever thought about doing this professionally?"
"I used to sell designs online, under a different name. My family didn't approve of it."
"Well, your family sounds like they had bad taste in everything, including their approval," Sasha said bluntly. "This is genuinely gorgeous work. You need to keep doing this."
Something warm bloomed in my chest at her words was the first real, unprompted praise for my work I'd received from someone who wasn't a stranger online.
"Anyway," Sasha continued, checking the time on her phone, "I have to run, but I'm coming to that gala, and I expect you to sit with me the whole night so I don't have to suffer through boring business talk alone. Deal?"
"Deal," I said, smiling.
After she left, the room felt quieter, but not in the same heavy, lonely way it had before. For the first time since arriving at the Crew estate, I had something that felt like a friend.
I looked at myself in the mirror, the half-finished navy gown pinned around me, and thought to myself, maybe this wasn't going to be as unbearable as I'd feared.