After the photograph, Anna changed again.
And then once more.
She emerged in softer colors this time, lighter fabrics, simpler silhouettes. Each time she stepped out, she smiled at Lucien, but she no longer moved toward him. The closeness from before lingered in her body—too vivid, too warm—and she didn't quite know how to return to it without feeling shy.
Lucien never asked.
He stood a little apart now, hands loosely folded behind his back, his posture relaxed but attentive. His gaze followed her with quiet focus, never intrusive, never demanding. When she turned or laughed at herself, when she smoothed a sleeve or adjusted a ribbon, he watched as if those small movements were enough.
There was no impatience in him.
Only presence and focus.
At some point, the light shifted.
The sun had climbed higher, no longer slanting but steady, bright. Shadows shortened beneath the trees. The air grew warmer, carrying the faint scent of leaves and water. Somewhere in the distance, a bell chimed, its sound drifting across the estate.
She stepped back into the dressing room again, lifting the skirt of her dress slightly as she went, her movements slower now, a little tired but still buoyed by excitement.
The door closed softly behind her.
Lucien remained where he was.
His expression changed.
He turned his head slightly toward the entrance of the garden. Two staff members stood there, unobtrusive, waiting. Lucien met their eyes.
His face was composed, but the warmth from moments ago was gone—replaced by something precise, unmistakably serious.
He gave a brief nod to the first.
Then, a separate, subtle gesture to the second.
No words.
Both understood immediately.
They moved at once, splitting in opposite directions, their footsteps soundless against the stone paths as they disappeared from view.
Lucien returned his gaze to the closed dressing room door.
He waited.
Inside, Anna stood before the mirror, unaware. She unpinned her hair carefully, shaking it loose, her reflection still faintly flushed, eyes bright with lingering emotion. She smiled to herself, heart settling gradually back into a steady rhythm.
Outside, time passed quietly.
The sun stood high now, light pouring cleanly into the courtyard, illuminating every surface without mercy or softness. The dreamlike quality of the morning thinned and sharpened.
Footsteps approached.
One of the staff members returned.
He pushed something large through the doorway.
The object was wrapped in layers of protective fabric, its shape unmistakable even before it was fully revealed. When the covering was pulled back, the weight of it seemed to alter the air in the space.
A wedding dress.
This was a heavy, meticulously structured gown—hand-embroidered fabric cascading in thick layers, the bodice reinforced, the skirt wide and commanding. Beading caught the midday light, scattering it in sharp, deliberate flashes. The train alone pooled across the stone floor like something ceremonial, final.
The staff member maneuvered it carefully, reverently, as though handling something sacred.
Lucien looked at the wedding dress.
His gaze moved slowly over its structure—the weight of the fabric, the disciplined fall of the skirt, the deliberate severity hidden beneath its beauty. For a moment, his eyes lingered, thoughtful, as if measuring not the dress itself, but the effect it was meant to have.
Something subtle shifted in his expression.
The softness he had worn all morning receded—not into coldness, but into control. Calm, composed, assured. The look of someone who knew exactly where the next step would lead.
He nodded once.
The decision was already made.
The staff member stepped back at once, hands folding neatly in front of him, waiting.
Lucien turned just as the dressing room door opened.
Anna stepped out.
She was mid-motion, lifting the edge of her skirt slightly, her attention still turned inward—until she saw it.
She froze.
Her breath stopped so abruptly it almost hurt.
The dress stood there, enormous and unmistakable, occupying the space with a presence that felt nothing like the light costumes she had worn before. It wasn't playful. It wasn't whimsical.
It was serious.
Her eyes widened. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
"A wedding dress…?" she whispered.
Lucien watched her carefully.
He didn't move closer. Didn't speak right away. He let the shock settle, let her take it in fully—the weight, the implication, the sudden shift in atmosphere.
"I was watching you earlier," he said at last, his voice gentle, unhurried. "Trying different styles. Different versions of yourself."
He stepped closer now, but stopped at a respectful distance.
"And it occurred to me," he continued, his gaze steady on her face, "that you would look very beautiful in a wedding dress."
Anna swallowed.
Her first instinct was to shake her head.
"That's… that's too fast," she said softly. "We haven't even—"
She stopped herself.
Her fingers twisted together unconsciously.
"We haven't really confirmed anything," she thought, but afraid to let it out.
Lucien didn't interrupt.
He listened as attentively as he always had, his expression open, unpressuring. When she finished, he inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her hesitation as something valid.
"I understand," he said.
There was no disappointment in his tone. No insistence.
Then, gently, he added, "I'm not asking you to make any promises."
He gestured lightly toward the dress.
"Think of it as part of the theme," he said. "You've worn elves, princesses, fairies. This is simply… another role."
His eyes met hers again.
"I would never ask you to do something you weren't comfortable with," he said quietly. "So I'm only asking—would you like to try it on?"
The question was polite.
Carefully framed.
Anna's heart was still racing, her thoughts tangled. It did feel sudden—too meaningful, too symbolic. And yet, standing there in the middle of a place that already felt unreal, she found herself searching for reasons to say no—and coming up short.
His gaze didn't pressure her.
It waited.
She glanced at the dress again.
Maybe it was just another costume.
Another part of the fantasy.
Another beautiful thing he had prepared for her.
Her pulse fluttered.
"…Just to try?" she asked.
Lucien smiled faintly.
"Just to try," he said.
And without realizing it, Anna took a small step forward.
The wedding dress took time.
More time than any of the others.
Two attendants moved around Anna with quiet efficiency, lifting layers, adjusting seams, tightening fastenings one by one. The fabric was heavier than she had expected—much heavier. It rested on her shoulders with a steady, undeniable weight, pressing downward, reminding her constantly that it was there.
The bodice closed slowly around her.
Too slowly.
As the laces were drawn tight, Anna's breath caught. She inhaled instinctively, then realized she couldn't quite fill her lungs the way she usually did. The corseted structure held her firmly in place, shaping her waist, lifting her posture, leaving no room for slouching or softness.
It wasn't painful.
But it was restrictive.
The fabric embraced her ribs, her back, her sides, holding her in an exact form she hadn't chosen herself. Each movement required intention. Each breath had to be measured.
The skirt fell in thick, deliberate layers, heavy silk and embroidery cascading to the floor. When she shifted her weight, she felt it drag slightly behind her, the train following with a quiet insistence, like something that would not be left behind.
When they finished, the attendants stepped back.
Anna barely recognized herself.
She stood very still, hands resting lightly at her sides, afraid that any sudden movement might unbalance her. The mirror reflected a woman who looked composed, elegant—almost monumental.
But inside, her heart beat faster than usual.
She took a cautious step forward.
Then another.
The dress responded slowly, reluctantly, the weight redistributing around her legs. She walked a small circle, then another, the fabric whispering against the floor with each turn. The sound was soft, but constant.
She felt enclosed.
Contained.
When she stepped out of the dressing room, the light caught the dress at once. Beading scattered it into sharp, bright points that drew the eye inevitably toward her.
Lucien looked up.
The moment he saw her, his expression changed.
His gaze fixed on her with an intensity that made her instinctively straighten, her shoulders pulling back further under the rigid structure of the gown. He took a step forward, then another, his attention unwavering.
He stopped a short distance away.
Up close, his eyes moved over her slowly. As if committing the image to memory.
"You're extraordinary," he said quietly.
Anna's fingers curled slightly into the fabric at her sides.
"It's… very tight," she admitted, her voice softer than she intended.
He nodded, as though that was exactly what he expected.
"But it suits you," he said. "It gives you presence."
He took another step closer, then stopped again, careful to keep space between them. His hands remained at his sides, his posture perfectly controlled.
"You look like a goddess," he continued, his voice low and sincere. "Someone who reminds people why they believe in things larger than themselves."
Her heart skipped.
The words settled over her heavily, almost as heavily as the dress itself.
"For me," he added, meeting her eyes, "you give hope."
Her throat tightened.
She didn't know what to say.
Lucien hesitated—just enough to make what came next feel considered.
"May I ask something?" he said.
She nodded faintly.
"Would you allow me one photograph with you?" His tone was polite, almost careful. "Just one."
She looked at him, then down at the dress, at the way it anchored her to the floor.
This felt different.
More serious.
Her hesitation showed. She shifted her weight slightly, the skirt resisting her movement.
He didn't interrupt it.
He only waited, his gaze steady, open—quietly asking.
Finally, she nodded. "Okay."
Relief flickered across his face, subtle but unmistakable.
He moved to stand beside her.
Not too close.
Not touching.
They faced forward together, shoulders aligned but separate, like a formal portrait. Like a photograph meant for records rather than memory.
She stood very straight, breath shallow, heart racing.
The camera lifted.
The shutter clicked.
Lucien didn't reach for her.
He didn't need to.
The dress held her perfectly in place.
After the photograph, Anna shifted slightly.
The stiffness in her posture lingered even as the camera was lowered, her body still held in the memory of constraint. Something about the moment felt… off. Not wrong exactly—just unfamiliar, like wearing a role for too long after the scene had ended.
Lucien noticed immediately.
He stepped back first, increasing the distance rather than closing it. Then, to her surprise, he inclined his head toward her—slowly, formally.
It was a bow.
Not exaggerated. Not theatrical.
Precise. Respectful.
For a second, it almost startled her.
"Thank you," he said, his voice calm but unmistakably earnest. When he lifted his head again, his eyes held a quiet intensity, softened now by something close to awe. "I may not have said it enough, but… you were remarkable."
She felt heat rise to her cheeks again.
"You've worked hard today," he continued. "I hope you'll allow yourself to rest for a while."
His lips curved into a gentle smile. "I've asked for afternoon tea to be prepared. Something light. Sweet."
The tension in her chest loosened.
The strange, awkward feeling she'd had moments earlier began to fade, replaced by warmth. By the sense of being noticed, cared for. Chosen.
She smiled back, small but genuine. "That sounds really nice."
Lucien nodded.
"Take your time," he said. "There's no hurry."
When she returned to the dressing room, the attendants helped her out of the gown with the same quiet efficiency as before. As the bodice loosened, Anna let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. The pressure around her ribs eased, then disappeared.
But when she stepped free of the dress, something made her flinch.
Not sharply—just enough to draw a quiet breath between her teeth.
The discomfort lingered, dull and insistent.
She looked down.
The inner straps around her thighs—hidden beneath layers of silk and embroidery—had been drawn tighter than she had realized. The skin there was tender now, flushed a deeper pink, faintly swollen where the pressure had held for too long.
She touched the area lightly.
The sensation answered at once, a small, sharp reminder that made her withdraw her fingers again, instinctively. Her brows knit for a moment. She shifted her weight, testing the feeling, then stilled.
It wasn't serious.
Nothing that would last.
But it was uncomfortable in a way that felt disproportionate to how little she had noticed while wearing the gown. As if her body had complied quietly, only now asking to be acknowledged.
She stood there for a moment longer than necessary, breathing slowly, letting the feeling settle rather than resisting it.
Then she straightened.
She smoothed her clothes once she was dressed again, the familiar fabrics light against her skin, forgiving. Her posture relaxed gradually, the tension easing out of her shoulders. She told herself, that it would fade soon enough.
The mirror reflected someone calm again.
Presentable.
Unmarked, at least at first glance.
Outside, the light had softened.
The sun was no longer overhead but angled lower, gentler, casting longer shadows across the stone. The air felt warmer, slower, as if the day itself had decided to pause.
Anna rested her hand briefly against the doorframe before stepping out.
Afternoon waited.