*Olivia*
It was hard to believe it had only been a month since Gio proposed. The time passed in a flurry of planning and tasting and looking into the eyes of my soon-to-be husband, and suddenly the day was here. Dahlia stood between the mirror and me in a gauzy, light purple sheath dress with a neckline so low it made my mother blush when she saw it on the hanger.
In old Italian tradition, I hadn’t seen myself since yesterday. Technically, I could have looked as soon as I put the dress on, but I wanted the full effect.
“Speaking of the veil,” my mom stepped into the bathroom with a wave of cream lace over her arm, “here it is.”
She’d brought the veil my great-grandmother made almost a century ago. I’d designed my dress around it.
