Ethan Thorne spent over a million dollars customizing a vintage wedding dress for me from Paris, saying I’d wear it on our wedding day. He called it a once-in-a-lifetime romantic gesture, promising me the perfect dream. But when I tried it on, I couldn’t even zip it up. The waist was a size too big, yet the bust felt suffocatingly tight. I thought the designer had mixed up the measurements and flipped up the skirt to find the tag. That’s when I noticed a few words embroidered in silver thread on the delicate tulle closest to the heart. [Sera, forever.] I thought it was a romantic blessing from the French designer. Until I scrolled past a ballerina on Instagram. She was wearing the prototype of this very wedding dress, with a caption that read: [Thank you. Even if I’m not the bride, you hid my name in the place closest to your heart.] And her ID was “Sera.” I calmly took off the million-dollar wedding dress. I’m not getting married. The custom haute couture wedding dress, air-freighted from Paris, hung in the most prominent spot in the VIP fitting room. Layers upon layers of silk chiffon, embedded with thousands of hand-sewn Swarovski crystals. Under the lights, it shimmered and sparkled, like an ethereal dream. The store manager, along with three assistants, carefully helped me put it on. “Miss Hayes, Mr. Thorne really outdid himself for you. He oversaw everything from design to final fitting, even personally selecting the lace pattern.” The manager sighed with envy as she adjusted my skirt. I looked at myself in the mirror, but a frown creased my brow. “The zipper won’t go up.” An assistant struggled for a long time behind me, sweat beading on her forehead. “Miss Hayes, have you gained a little weight recently? The waist is quite loose, but the bust and back are really too tight.” I didn’t say anything. My weight hadn’t changed much in years. I’d had a physical last week, and it was exactly the same. My figure had always been standard, but the cut of this dress was clearly for an extremely slender, almost flat-chested girl. “Maybe I haven’t rested well these past few days; I feel a little swollen,” I offered a casual excuse. “In that case, please take it off, and we’ll have the tailor add a bit of allowance.” The assistants helped me out of the dress. The heavy skirt piled onto the carpet. As I bent to lift the hem, my fingers inadvertently brushed against the sheer fabric on the inside of the bodice. There was a slight protrusion. I thought it was a loose thread, but when I flipped it over, I froze. In the spot closest to the heart, a line of words was intricately embroidered with incredibly subtle silver thread. [Sera, forever.] The silver thread gleamed with a cold, piercing light under the cool white lamps. “Miss Hayes, what’s wrong?” The manager noticed my changed expression and leaned in to look. “Oh, was this something Mr. Thorne specifically requested? Young couples these days love this kind of exclusive romance, embroidering each other’s names or vows into the wedding dress.” The manager smiled, a hint of suggestive amusement in her eyes. I didn’t smile. My name is Aurora Hayes. Ethan usually called me Rory, or my full name. Who was Sera? I clutched the tulle, my fingertips turning white. “I’m not trying it on anymore.” I let go, allowing the million-dollar wedding dress to fall to the floor. “Miss Hayes? We haven’t even altered the size yet…” “No need to.” I changed back into my regular clothes, grabbed my bag, and walked out of the bridal shop without looking back. Sitting in my car, I didn’t start the engine right away. Instead, I pulled out my phone and typed “Sera” into Instagram’s search bar. In the age of big data, no secret can stay hidden. Especially not when Ethan Thorne’s social circle was so small. After just a few pages, an account verified as a “Young Ballerina” popped up. The profile picture was the back of a woman in a white swan ballet tutu. Account ID: Sera. I clicked on her profile. The top pinned video was posted a week ago. In the video, she was dancing gracefully in a rehearsal room, wearing an initial prototype almost identical to the haute couture wedding dress I had just tried on. Because it was a sample, it wasn’t encrusted with crystals, but the cut, style, and even the direction of the lace were exactly the same. She was incredibly slender, with a flat chest and a delicate waist. The dress fit her perfectly, seamlessly, as if it were a second skin. The video’s caption read: [He said he would make my dream a reality. Thank you. Even if I’m not the bride, you hid my name in the place closest to your heart.] A comment below asked: [Wow! Such a beautiful wedding dress! Are you getting married?] Sera replied: [No, it’s a gift from a very important person. Unfortunately, I can’t wear it to walk towards him.] I stared at the screen, a sudden wave of nausea washing over me. Three years. I’d been with Ethan Thorne for three years. I thought I was his carefully chosen fiancée. It turned out I was just a stand-in, forced to wear someone else’s hand-me-down wedding dress. A stand-in who didn’t even fit the dimensions.
I drove home. This apartment, located downtown, was the wedding home Ethan had bought. Opening the door, I was met with a panorama of black, white, and gray. Hard, cold marble floors, a black leather sofa, and a minimalist metal coffee table utterly devoid of any warmth. Before we moved in, I’d enthusiastically shown him soft furnishing catalogs. I’d said I wanted a cream-colored fabric sofa, a fluffy rug in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, and a few brightly colored oil paintings. Ethan had looked up from his computer, his brow slightly furrowed. “Rory, those things are too cluttered, too tacky. A home needs quality, not cheap coziness.” I compromised. Over three years, I had compromised countless times. I thought it was just his occupational hazard as a CEO, accustomed to rigidity and efficiency. Now that I thought about it, it wasn’t that at all. I walked to the living room’s floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the gray sky. The lock chimed. Ethan was back. He wore a impeccably tailored suit, his tie loosened slightly, his eyes holding their usual fatigue and indifference. “How was the wedding dress fitting?” He asked casually as he changed his shoes. “It didn’t fit,” I turned to face him. “What didn’t fit?” He walked to the island counter and poured himself a glass of ice water. “The size was wrong. The waist was too big, the bust too tight.” Ethan paused his drinking, then frowned. “That was cut by the Paris atelier according to the golden ratio. Have you been slacking on your workouts lately, is your posture off? Haute couture is about the person adapting to the dress, not the dress adapting to the person.” His tone was condescending, lecturing. The person adapting to the dress. I suddenly felt like laughing. “Really? Because I feel like that dress wasn’t tailored for me to begin with.” Ethan put down his water glass, his gaze hardening. “Aurora, what kind of tantrum are you throwing now? That wedding dress cost me $1.2 million; do you know how much effort I put in to get the chief designer to rush it? Can’t you be more reasonable?” “Reasonable?” I looked at the face I had loved for three years. He was handsome, wealthy, and in outsiders’ eyes, a flawless fiancé. But at this moment, I only felt a profound unfamiliarity. “Ethan, was ‘Sera’ embroidered inside the dress part of the golden ratio?” The living room fell silent. Ethan’s pupils constricted, and the muscles in his jawline tensed sharply. But he quickly regained his composure, his voice not even wavering. “You saw it.” It wasn’t a question; it was a statement. “Yes, I saw it,” I stared into his eyes. “Aren’t you going to explain?” Ethan quirked his lips, a look of extremely perfunctory helplessness. “That’s just a friend. The initial design draft of this dress was something I drew many years ago to help her achieve a stage dream. With the wedding approaching quickly, I just used that old draft. The words? The studio messed up, thinking it was the bride’s name. I’ve already had someone sent to remove it.” “A friend?” I took a step closer to him. “A friend whose name you need to embroider on your fiancée’s wedding dress, closest to her heart?” “Aurora!” He raised his voice, clearly losing patience. “I told you, the studio made a mistake! Do you have to be so petty about a trivial matter? The invitations have already been sent, the wedding venue booked. Are you trying to make us a laughingstock by pulling this stunt now?” He was always like this. Whenever I questioned him, he’d label me “unreasonable” or “petty.” As if I was always the one at fault. He sighed, pulled a velvet box from his pocket, and held it out to me. “Alright, don’t be mad anymore. I passed an auction house today, and this necklace looked perfect for you, so I bought it. Consider it my apology.” I didn’t take it. The box was open. Inside lay an incredibly luminous South Sea pearl necklace. I looked at the pearls and said softly, “Ethan, I’m allergic to pearls; they make my neck break out in a rash. I’ve told you three times.” Ethan’s hand froze mid-air. A flicker of panic finally crossed his eyes. “I’m sorry, I… I’ve been so busy lately, I got it mixed up.” “Got it mixed up?” I curled my lips. “Did you get it mixed up, or did you subconsciously think the person standing here should be Sera, the one who loves pearls?” In every one of Sera’s photos, she wore pearls around her neck. Ethan slammed the box shut, his face turning ashen. “Aurora, you’re being utterly unreasonable!” He turned and walked towards his study, slamming the door shut with a bang. I stood in the empty living room, not shedding a single tear. My heart had simply died. When all the details came together, the truth was often uglier than imagined.
The next day, Ethan went to the office. I didn’t go to work. I walked to the study door and tried the handle. It wasn’t locked. Ethan had a habit: he didn’t like anyone touching his things, especially the safe at the very bottom of his desk. He said it contained the company’s core secrets. I used to believe him implicitly, even carefully avoiding it when I cleaned. But today, I wanted to open it. I knelt in front of the safe, looking at the keypad. Six digits. I typed in my birthday. A red light blinked; incorrect password. I typed in our anniversary. Incorrect password. I typed in Ethan’s own birthday. Still incorrect. I paused for a long time, my finger hovering, trembling slightly. Then, I took out my phone and pulled up Sera’s account. Two years ago, she had posted a birthday video; the date was October 27th. I took a deep breath and pressed 102799 (she was born in ‘99). Click. A green light illuminated, and the heavy metal door sprang open. In that instant, I felt something inside me shatter. Inside the safe, there were no company confidential documents. No multi-million dollar contracts. Only a few exquisitely crafted storage boxes. I opened the first box. Inside was a thick stack of ballet performance tickets. Every single one was for Sera’s performances. The dates ranged from three years ago all the way up to last month. On the 15th of last month, Ethan told me he was going to London for a business trip to discuss a crucial merger. But the location on that ticket was the Paris Opera House. I opened the second box. Inside was a thick stack of boarding passes. Ethan’s name and Sera’s name were printed side-by-side. Destinations spanned the globe. I thought he was working hard for our future, countless nights I worried about his exhaustion. It turned out he was just traveling the world with another woman. The last box contained a sketchbook. I opened it. Inside were all his hand-drawn designs. Wedding dresses, evening gowns, everyday wear. The bottom right corner of each one read: [To my little swan, Sera.] The very last drawing was of that million-dollar haute couture wedding dress. The note beside it read: [Waist 23 inches, Bust 31.5 inches. She’s too thin; add a few layers of silk so it doesn’t look flimsy.] My waist was 25 inches, my bust 34.5 inches. No wonder I couldn’t wear it. No wonder he thought I was “lacking exercise.” I put everything back into the safe exactly as I found it and closed the door. When I stood up, my vision blurred, and I had to hold onto the desk for a long time to steady myself. Three years. Over a thousand days and nights. I thought I was the most intimate person in his life. It turned out I didn’t even have the right to enter the most secret corners of his heart. I was just a shield. A perfect fiancée he used to appease his parents and the outside world when he couldn’t openly marry Sera. I pulled out my phone and called my best friend, Chloe Green. “Chloe, are you free for lunch? Let’s meet up.” “What’s wrong? Your voice is so hoarse, do you have a cold?” “No,” I looked at the sunlight outside the window. “I just feel like it’s time for me to wake up.”
Chloe and I met at a discreet coffee shop. After hearing my story, Chloe was so furious she almost crushed her coffee cup. “That jerk, Ethan! How dare he?!” Chloe suddenly stood up, drawing glances from people around us. I tugged at her sleeve. “Sit down, don’t get so worked up.” “How can I not get worked up?!” Chloe lowered her voice, her eyes red. “Aurora, how have you been surviving these past three years? You even gave up your beloved design career for him! You willingly went to his company to be an uncredited ghost designer. Which of his new brand ‘Thorne’s’ hit products wasn’t something you stayed up all night drawing? How dare he treat you like this?!” She was right. I used to be an award-winning new designer. When Ethan was starting his business, his funding ran out, and he couldn’t afford good designers. Without a second thought, I resigned from my high-paying job and joined his company. To avoid suspicion and not overshadow him, none of my designs were ever credited. The outside world thought Ethan Thorne was a business prodigy and a design genius. Only I knew that those stunning works were born from my tireless efforts, stroke by stroke. “Chloe, crying won’t help,” I stirred my coffee, my eyes as cold as ice. “I didn’t ask you to meet me today to cry.” Chloe paused, looking at me. “Then what do you plan to do? Break off the engagement just like that? That’s letting those two off easy!” “The engagement is definitely off,” I put down my spoon. “But I’m not letting him off easy.” “How so?” “The wedding venue is the top hotel in the city, the deposit was fifty thousand. That wedding dress, $1.2 million. And other miscellaneous preparation costs, it all adds up to nearly two hundred thousand.” I looked at Chloe. “All that money came from my parents.” Ethan had said his company was having cash flow problems, and my parents, feeling sorry for me, had pulled out their life savings without hesitation. “If I unilaterally announce the breakup now, according to the contract, none of those deposits will be refunded.” Chloe gasped. “Damn it, he used your parents’ money to make a wedding dress for his ‘white moonlight’?!” “Exactly. So, I need evidence,” I calmly analyzed. “I need to prove that he was at fault first, that he violated the principle of fidelity in our engagement. Only then can I, through a lawyer, get all that money back, down to the last penny.” Not only that. I also wanted to reclaim everything that belonged to me. My designs, my hard work, my dignity. Chloe looked at me, her anger slowly turning to heartache. “Aurora, you’ve changed.” “People always have to grow up,” I smiled faintly. “I used to think love could sustain you, but now I realize that money and a career are the most reliable things.” “What do you need me to do?” Chloe asked without hesitation. “Help me contact the best lawyer in the city for divorce and contract disputes,” I looked at her. “The tougher, the better.” “No problem. Leave it to me.” After parting ways with Chloe, I didn’t go home. Instead, I went to a shopping mall. I bought several sets of brightly colored clothes. Red, bright yellow, royal blue. I threw all those black, white, and gray clothes into the trash. Ethan loved minimalism. But I, Aurora Hayes, was born to love passion and vibrancy.
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