Page 20 of Beloved Beauty

The second dress is softer. Flowing chiffon. A little ethereal. I feel like I should be barefoot in a field somewhere, holding wildflowers.

Not it either.

Malie tilts her head. “You look lovely, lo’u afafine. Like a woodland goddess.”

Sefina wrinkles her nose. “It’s giving flower girl at Coachella. Not bridal.”

Leilani sighs, crossing one leg over the other. “You’re gorgeous in it, but no. This dress isn’t you. It’s too floaty. It’s trying too hard to be whimsical.”

“Agreed.” I nod, already turning toward the fitting room again.

I’m zipped into the third dress, a glamorous satin piece with a cathedral-length train. I stare at myself, waiting for it and… nothing. It’s beautiful––they all are––but there’s no special connection for me.

I step out of the fitting room, smoothing the silk over my hips as the train trails behind me. The girls go quiet, and for a second, I think they’re going to say that this one is it—until I see their faces.

Leilani is the first to speak. Her tone is soft, careful. “You are stunning in that, but I don’t know. You seem kind of sad in that dress.”

Malie tilts her head, her eyes narrowing me. “Lo’u afafine, what’s wrong?”

I give the safe answer. “Please don’t think I’m not happy to have you here with me. I am, very much so, but I’m missing Violet. We always planned on doing this together.”

And while that is the truth, it’s not the whole truth.

There’s so much more.

It’s not just this moment without Vi. It’s the pressure of everything closing in from the edges—Tyson and the way last night spiraled out of control. The hatred in Alex’s eyes when he shoved him—furious, unhinged, protective in a way that scared me. And the worst part? Knowing next time, it won’t stop with a shove. At some point, Alex’s rage is going to boil over. And when that happens, he’ll do more than push him.

This day should be joy and lace and champagne, but Tyson is a cloud raining all over my dress-shopping parade.

In the mirror, my reflection stares back at me. And I’m mad at myself for not being able to forget what he did last night.

I step back into the dressing room, another gown waiting on the hook—a soft tulle number with delicate beading across the bodice. It’s the dress you dream about when you’re twelve and playing bride with a lace curtain veil.

But right now? It looks like more fabric I won’t connect with.

I slip it on anyway, because that’s what you do.

You try again.

You keep smiling.

You pretend the knot in your stomach isn’t there.

When I step out, Malie is waiting for me—not with her usual warm smile but with that mother’s intuition look that sees straight through the act.

She steps in close, smoothing down one side of the dress before meeting my eyes in the mirror. “None of these are the one, are they?”

I let out a half laugh. “Guess I’m just picky.”

She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t buy it. “No, baby. This isn’t about tulle or lace or missing Violet. What’s going on?”

I hold her gaze for a long second, then breathe out, deciding to tell her.

I sit on the little velvet bench at the edge of the dressing platform, the layers of tulle spilling around me, a frothy mess I can’t climb out of.

Malie kneels beside me, her hand gentle over mine. She waits, not pressing, and somehow, that opens the dam.

“It happened again last night at the party Kye and Krishna were having at their house.”

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