Chapter 3: Rivalry in White

The next day, when Mason saw me again at breakfast, he acted like nothing happened, buttering his toast with mechanical precision.

He told my mom flatly that Jessica wanted to try on wedding dresses in the afternoon at Kleinfeld's on Michigan Avenue.

My mom nudged me, her eyes gleaming. "Grace should go too, give them some advice."

Mason shot me a look, coffee cup paused midair.

I stood and laughed awkwardly. "Yeah, I’ll give advice too. Might come in handy when I get married someday."

"Sister would look beautiful in a wedding dress. I wonder who’ll be lucky enough to marry her."

Mason’s words hung in the air like a dare. My mom and I exchanged glances—the jealousy in his voice was impossible to miss.

At the bridal shop, the showroom smelled faintly of vanilla and new fabric, mirrors everywhere, making it feel like we were trapped in some glittering fishbowl. Jessica waved at Mason, but her face soured when she spotted me tagging along.

"Why is sister here too?" She forced a smile.

I waved innocently, channeling my best little-sister energy. "My mom asked me to help."

Jessica glared, but I linked arms with Mason, feeling his muscles tense beneath my touch.

Mason curved his lips. "Let’s go."

Jessica hurried after, heels clicking on marble. She called for the staff to bring out her pre-ordered ballgown—enough tulle to outfit a ballet company—and flirted with Mason. "Does it look good?"

Mason nodded absently, and Jessica beamed, sweeping to the dressing room.

"Won’t you try one?" Mason looked at me, voice carefully neutral.

He didn’t wait for my answer. He handed a staff member a mermaid-style gown—ivory silk, cool and heavy—and pushed it into my arms, his fingers brushing mine.

"Go try it on."

I remembered being a kid, hair in a ponytail, pointing out a mermaid dress in a State Street window, telling Mason, "When I get married, I want that kind. Little Fish in a mermaid dress."

When the curtain rose, Jessica had the staff taking photos, posing like she was already on a magazine cover.

Mason emerged in a charcoal Armani suit. I stepped forward to adjust his collar, my fingers lingering just a second too long.

His gaze was all for me, dark and intense.

We locked eyes. The world faded away, just like it used to.

A staffer bustled over, oblivious to the tension. "You two are such a perfect match! Let me take a photo."

Jessica rushed over, linking arms with Mason, acrylic nails digging into his sleeve. "I’m his fiancée."

The staffer smiled awkwardly and backed away. "Sorry, my mistake."

Jessica snapped, "Let’s go, Mason honey. We’re not taking wedding photos here."

I turned to the staff, smoothing things over. "Sorry, we’re not a couple. I’ll come back for photos when it’s my turn."

Mason’s eyes still lingered on me. Jessica faked an injury, crouching down and rubbing her ankle like she was auditioning for local theater. "Mason honey, my foot hurts. Carry me."

Mason picked her up, but looked back at me, something unspoken in his eyes.

I smiled to myself. "Tsk, what a player."

Still, compared to Jessica, I had ten years of history on my side. It was just a matter of time. After all, you can’t fake ten years of history.

But even history can be rewritten. And I was about to pick up the pen.