“Just wanted to make sure you’re alright,” the planner said softly, her voice warm but efficient. She glanced at the train I’d just smoothed out, gave a nod of approval, then turned toward the door. “We’ve got time. Take a breath.”
I smiled faintly, still adjusting the neckline. My fingers slipped slightly, brushing the soft curve of my breasts through the bodice. I froze for a moment, not out of embarrassment, but surprise. The sensation was real. Warm. Responsive. I gave a tiny squeeze, half-curious, half-accidental, and felt the weight shift naturally beneath my touch. It was her body. But it reacted like mine.
She didn’t linger. The door clicked shut behind her, and for the first time since I woke up in this body, I was truly alone.
I took a step toward a nearby mirror — or tried to. My foot shifted, the heel caught something beneath the train, and before I could even register what was happening, I was falling.
I fell forward, arms flailing, landing flat on my front with a muffled thud. The dress cushioned the impact with it layers of satin and lace softening the blow, but it was still humiliating. My hair whipped forward, spilling across my face and shoulders. The pendant around my neck slammed into my chest with a sharp sting. It was a miracle my breasts didn’t spill out; I could feel the pressure of them trying to escape, pressed hard against the tight fabric of the bodice, straining but held in place. I groaned, face buried in the skirt, and muttered, “Well… that was graceful.” Then I scoffed quietly. “Of course she’d be in heels. How did I forget that?”
Getting up was its own ordeal. I had to push my entire weight up through the layers of fabric, careful not to step on the underside of the train or catch the hem beneath me. My knees wobbled, the heels unsteady, but I managed to rise without another disaster. I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to smooth it back into something resembling the styled waves I’d seen earlier. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do. I gathered the train carefully, steadying my footing, making sure not to catch the underside again. The dress was heavy, the train trailing behind like a living thing. I tried to take a step toward the mirror again, placing each foot with slow, deliberate care, trying not to wobble in the heels that felt like stilts beneath me.
I reached the mirror and stared. It reflected her perfectly — the soft waves of hair, the fitted bodice, the contrast in my eyes. Me. I was the bride. From beyond the door came the faint chatter of early arrivals, distant voices and footsteps echoing through the hall. The room itself held its breath, wrapped in the weight of satin and lace against my skin.
Then the door opened again.
“Sorry about that,” the photographer said, stepping back into the room with a sheepish grin. “Had to grab a fresh battery. Didn’t mean to leave you hanging.”
“Uh…” The sound escaped before I could stop it — low, rough, and unmistakably masculine. It didn’t match the body I was in, and for a second, I wasn’t sure the voice had even come from me. I blinked. That first photo, the one I woke up into, must’ve been part of the shoot she’d already started. He was just picking up where he left off.
“Let’s get one by the window,” he said, gesturing toward the soft spill of natural light in the center of the room. “You looked absolutely breath-taking there earlier. Honestly, I should’ve taken a few more… for myself. I mean, if I were the groom, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight. Not dressed like that. Hell, if I were anyone else, I’d still be thinking about it tonight.”
His eyes lingered a little too long. The compliment hung in the air, unmistakably inappropriate. I didn’t respond.
He took the silence as permission. Stepping closer, he reached for my hand gently and deliberately, he guided me toward the light like I was something delicate. Once I was in position, he moved behind me, placing his hands on my bare shoulders and turning me slightly to the side. His fingers drifted down the curve of my back, slowing as they reached the base — lingering just above the swell of my backside, adjusting me with a touch that felt more exploratory than necessary.
Then, without a word, he wrapped his arms around the front of my waist, adjusting the angle of my body between my stomach and thighs. He lifted both my arms into place, mirroring the pose from earlier with practiced ease.
As he stepped back, his eyes flicked to the neckline of the dress. It had shifted slightly but not much, but enough to suggest it might slip further. He reached out again, placing both hands at the top edge of the bodice to pull it upward. His fingertips slipped just beneath the fabric, grazing the top of my breasts before he adjusted the neckline with slow precision. The gesture wasn’t helpful. It was odd. Invasive. Talia wouldn’t have liked it.
The photographer moved into position, lifting the camera and adjusting the angle with quiet focus.
The light caught the embroidery on the gown, the contrast in my hair. I held the pose — symmetrical, sideways, elegant. It felt natural. Familiar. Like muscle memory I hadn’t earned. Like the body knew what to do, even if I didn’t. I wasn’t just mimicking her, I was inhabiting her rhythm, her grace, her presence. And somehow, it fit.
He paused. “Hold that,” he said. “Perfect.”
I didn’t breathe.
The shutter clicked.
