“You sabotaged me!” she shrieked, her voice echoing in my small studio. The perfect wedding dress, my masterpiece, lay crumpled on the floor with a three-inch tear she had made herself.
This was Brianna. The wealthy socialite bride who thought my life’s work was worth pocket change.
For months, she had bullied me, belittled my craft, and paid me a fraction of what her dress was worth. A dress she swore she had designed herself, a dream she’d had since she was a little girl.
But I knew she was a liar. I knew she had stolen the design from another artist.
She threatened to ruin my reputation with a single Instagram post to her two million followers. She never dreamed I’d use her own stolen design to orchestrate her downfall on a stage much, much bigger than her phone screen.
A Promise in Silk and Spite: The Pinterest Princess
The bell over my shop door chirped, a pleasant sound that usually meant business. Today, it felt like an alarm. In walked Brianna, all sharp angles and expensive perfume, a scent so aggressive it seemed to be colonizing the air in my small studio, overpowering the familiar, soft notes of steamed linen and cedar. She was a full forty minutes late, talking into her phone with the kind of volume that assumes an audience.
“No, I told him, the uplighting has to be a warmer tone. It’s a wedding, not a surgical theater,” she said, her voice dripping with the casual authority of someone who had never been told no. She clicked off the call without a goodbye and offered me a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. They were a pale, calculating blue, and they were already scanning my studio, cataloging its modest size and worn wooden floors.
“You must be Elena,” she said, extending a hand laden with rings. Her grip was brief and cool. “I’m Brianna. My planner, Jessica, said you’re the best. A bit of a hidden gem.” It sounded less like a compliment and more like an assessment of my market value.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I lied, gesturing to the consultation table. “Please, have a seat. You said you had a design you wanted to discuss?”
She swiped open her phone, the screen glowing with a photo of a wedding gown. I leaned in, my professional curiosity piqued. And then I felt it—a genuine intake of breath. The dress was magnificent. A cascade of silk crepe fell from a structured, corseted bodice, with intricate, vine-like embroidery creeping over the shoulders and down the illusion back. It was elegant, complex, and stunningly original.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, my voice full of sincere admiration.
“I designed it myself,” Brianna declared, beaming with a pride that seemed almost theatrical. “I’ve been sketching it since I was a little girl. It’s my dream dress.”
I looked from the photo back to her. My mind was already reverse-engineering the construction. The bias cut of the skirt, the hand-sewn appliqué, the internal boning required to achieve that flawless silhouette. It was hundreds of hours of work. It was a masterpiece. And as I stared at her perfectly manicured nails and unblemished smile, a small, cold seed of doubt began to sprout in the pit of my stomach. Something felt… off. It felt too perfect, too polished for an amateur’s dream sketch. But the rent on this studio was due, and my son Leo’s final tuition payment for the semester was a number that haunted my sleep. I pushed the feeling down. It was just a job.
The Price of Exposure
I took my time, tapping a pencil on my notepad as I broke down the components of the gown. I listed the materials: imported silk crepe, French Alençon lace for the appliqué, dozens of tiny, silk-covered buttons. I estimated the hours—the pattern-making, the muslin mock-up, the fittings, the thousands of hand stitches. This wasn’t just a dress; it was a piece of architectural art.
“Okay,” I said, looking up. I try to be gentle with this part. It’s the moment a client’s dream collides with reality. “Given the complexity of the design and the quality of the materials, you’d be looking at a cost of around eight thousand, five hundred dollars.”
Brianna’s smile didn’t falter, but it tightened at the edges. She let out a small, tinkling laugh, as if I’d just told a charmingly naive joke. “Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “That’s not going to work at all.”
I waited. I’d learned not to speak first in these moments.
“Jessica said you were reasonable,” she continued, her tone shifting from airy to sharp. “I was thinking something more in the neighborhood of two thousand.”
I almost laughed myself, but it would have been a bitter, harsh sound. “Brianna, the materials alone will cost more than that. The silk I would use for a gown like this is over two hundred dollars a yard.”
“Look,” she said, leaning forward and lowering her voice, as if letting me in on a secret. “This is going to be a huge wedding. The guest list is full of… important people. And Vows & Venues magazine is doing an exclusive feature. Think of the exposure for you. A little mention in a national magazine, a tag on my Instagram—I have over two million followers. You can’t buy that kind of publicity.”
It was the oldest, most insulting line in the book. Landlords don’t accept “exposure” as payment. The university bursar’s office doesn’t take Instagram tags. She was asking me to subsidize her lavish wedding with my labor, to trade my very real electric bill for her imaginary social currency. I could feel the familiar, hot flush of anger creeping up my neck.
But then the image of Leo’s face popped into my head, his excitement about his final year of his engineering program. The email from the university, with its bold, red “Past Due” stamp. My husband, Mark, looking over our budget last night, the worry lines etched around his eyes. We were stretched so thin.
“Two thousand is… impossible,” I managed, my voice tight. “I would be losing money.”
“Fine,” she huffed, crossing her arms. “Two thousand five hundred. That’s my final offer. And frankly, for the press you’ll be getting, you should be thanking me.”
I did the math in my head. If I used slightly less expensive silk, if I cut corners on the lace, if I worked sixteen-hour days and didn’t pay myself a dime for my time, I could maybe, just maybe, break even on materials. The profit would be zero. The “exposure” felt like a slap in the face. But the $2,500 would cover Leo’s tuition installment. It was a devil’s bargain.
“Okay,” I heard myself say, the word tasting like ash. “I can do it for that price.”
Brianna’s brilliant, false smile returned. “Perfect! I knew you’d be reasonable.” She stood up, grabbing her thousand-dollar handbag. “I’ll have Jessica send over the contract and the deposit. I’m so excited. This is going to be amazing.” She chirped the bell on her way out, leaving behind only the lingering scent of her perfume and a profound sense of dread.
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