It started with swatches.

Pale ivory, champagne blush, soft steel blue. A cascade of silk, chiffon, and lace laid delicately across Sophie’s sitting room table, bathed in late-afternoon light. Camellia stood near the edge, arms folded as she surveyed them with the eyes of a woman who knew how fabric behaved under pressure—runways, cameras, tears.

Sophie sat across from her, barefoot, one leg folded beneath her, a half-empty cup of white tea cooling beside her elbow.

“I don’t want a ballroom,” Sophie said. “No crystal chandeliers. No six-tier cake. No headline guests.”

Camellia arched an eyebrow. “So… not the Burnett family blueprint, then.”

“Not even remotely.”

Sophie reached for a...