**Chapter 5** As the sun dipped low in the sky, casting warm golden rays onto the bustling streets of London, Saint Laurent on Old Bond was closing its doors earlier than usual. This was my special reprieve, an oasis free from a sea of onlookers and their incessant, prying questions. The only company I needed was Henry and Christian, who had reluctantly agreed to accompany me on this crucial mission—suit shopping for the wedding. For someone as colorfully expressive as I am—renowned for my love of vibrant hues and my disdain for the mundane—my choice of wedding color palette might come as a surprise. Black, white, and neutrals would define the day. Of course, that wasn't the theme for the entire event; I had no intentions of inducing a funeral-like gloom at my celebration. But traditional dress codes seemed essential, and the last thing I wanted was for our guests to resemble a circus parade in an array of bright colors. “Magnolia,” Henry squinted at me from behind a rack of clothes, “we are more than capable of dressing ourselves.” With a playful pivot on my pink and red rose-embellished satin sandals from Magda Butrym, I raised an eyebrow. “Since when?” “Since this morning,” he said defiantly, a cocky grin plastered on his face. I appraised his outfit, arms crossed. “And what exactly are you wearing?” “An outfit of my own choosing—” Henry started, but his pride faltered a bit, “from the capsule wardrobe you gave me at the season's start.” Christian chimed in, “I like not dressing myself.” He was all too comfortable playing the role of the handsome puppet I loved to style. I shrugged, half in jest. “And I enjoy having my cute boy dolls to dress.” Christian scrunched his nose in mock indignation. “I like it a little less after that.” “Oh no,” I said, yawning dramatically as I rifled through a rack of dress shirts. With a grunt, Christian eventually asked, “So, are you dressing Beej for the wedding?” “Not a chance,” I huffed. “But I do know he’ll be wearing custom Gucci and Saint Laurent Oxfords.” “Tom Ford, you mean,” Henry corrected, his tone almost accusatory. A cheeky smile crept across my lips. “Oops.” “Magnolia!” Henry groaned, almost theatrically. “He’s going to kill me!” “Honestly," I grinned, "you're too easy.” “Parks—” Henry fished a shirt he liked from the rack, his expression a mixture of anger and amusement. “You walked right into that,” Christian chuckled, shaking his head at Henry. “That was pure vintage Parks—she’s a genuine sneak.” I elbowed my way past Christian, partly to get to the clothes and partly to give him a friendly nudge. “Excuse me! I am not sneaky—” “Right,” Christian rolled his eyes, feigning exasperation. “Everything’s always face value with you.” I shot him a glare before handing him a jacket, trousers, and a shirt combination. His brow furrowed briefly before he snatched it from my grasp, another eye-roll punctuating his reluctance. Henry, still fuming, called me a “brat” as he swished past, and, unable to resist, I wrapped my arms around him in a playful hug, batting my eyelashes as if I was the innocent one. He begrudgingly threw an arm around me and pressed a kiss to the top of my head, murmuring, “Don’t tell him you know.” I zipped my lips in mock secrecy. Christian soon re-emerged, his eyes searching for the right aesthetic in the mirror—a single-breasted tuxedo jacket in Grain de Poudre, elegantly draped over a crisp white slim-fit cotton shirt. The trousers, tailored in rich Saint Laurent Gabardine, completed his refined look. I could see he was pretending to ponder whether he approved, but the gleam in his eye betrayed him—he loved how he looked. With quiet determination, I helped him fasten a black silk satin Yves bow tie, taking a moment to revel in the sight. Handsome as ever—he had that timeless appeal that shone especially brightly in a tuxedo. As I adjusted the sleeves of his jacket, I felt his gaze intense and curious, full of questions that lingered unspoken. “Is it a stupid question to ask,” he began, a hint of hesitation creeping into his voice, “who your bridesmaids will be?” The question stung more than I cared to admit, and I masked my feelings with an artificial calm, running my fingers over the sequined tulle of my minidress. Without Bridget by my side—her absence like a heavy fog—it became glaringly obvious how few female friendships I had cultivated. Who could possibly fill her shoes? No one really could. Except perhaps— “Me,” Henry chimed in, sidling up next to me with an exuberant smile. “I’m your mate-of-honour!” I shot Christian a look, smothered in both disbelief and amusement. “He came up with that title himself.” Christian smirked, amusement dancing in his eyes. “I can only imagine.” “I am your mate-of-honour,” Henry declared, hands on his hips, voice booming with pride. “Err, you are my m—” I faltered, grimacing, “a very special position in my life.” Henry thumbed his chest proudly. “She doesn’t like the M-word.” “The M-word?” Christian furrowed his brow. “Mate?” “Oh, please,” I huffed, adding insult to injury. My sister would’ve rolled her eyes at this ridiculousness. “I just don’t like how it feels when I say it,” I shrugged nonchalantly. “Come on,” Christian argued, “it’s just a word.” “Nope. It’s so vulgar,” I protested, pretending my nose was in the air. “Such an idiot,” I could almost hear Bridget saying, accompanied by her characteristic eye roll. Christian’s eyebrows knitted together. “But why ‘mate’?” “It just doesn’t sit right with me, that’s all.” “I’m sure it could be much worse,” he countered. “Why?” I shot back defiantly. “I’m not poor.” Christian merely sniffed disdainfully at this, choosing not to engage. Instead, he turned the focus back to Henry. “So, you're planning to stand at the top of an aisle with your ex. How's that going for you?” Henry’s façade cracked for just a moment, his jaw clenching as he swallowed hard. “Fine,” he declared with forced nonchalance. “Really?” Christian studied him closely, unconvinced. “See yourself standing up there with her anytime soon?” “Not a chance,” Henry replied, feigning interest in a display of jewelry. The sudden shift in conversation hung heavily in the air. “Have you heard from Daisy?” was Christian’s abrupt inquiry. Silence enveloped the changing room, the weight palpable, as Henry’s jaw tightened further. “Nope.” “Nothing at all?” I pressed gently, my heart echoing his disappointment. “Nothing, Magnolia.” “Have you talked to J—” The door swung open, and Christian tossed the clothes into my waiting hands like a challenge in a duel. “I haven’t spoken to any Haites since the day they left,” he declared curtly. My heart sank, mirroring the heavy burden in his eyes. It was a quiet truth that stung—my long-ago friendship with Julian had dissolved into thin air, just like that. Not a single message, not even during my accident or in the shadows following Bridget’s tragic departure. “Right,” I whispered, tugging at my ear absentmindedly. “Okay. Now for shoes.” --- A message flickered across my phone screen, pulling me momentarily from my thoughts. **Gus W**: Miss you. Same lunch soon? **Me**: Yeah. Friday? **Gus W**: Yes! I can’t wait! Are you alright though? **Me**: I’m brilliant! Just bought the Cherry Lunch Box Clutch from Gucci and Judith Leiber. It’s honestly perfect. **Gus W:** Wear it Friday! Dying to see it x With a hint of anticipation fluttering in my chest, I smiled at the promise of the day to come.