Olivia Mercer felt the scissors touch the fabric before she understood what Brooke was doing.
“Hold still.”
Brooke Hart said it casually, almost laughing, as though the silver blades pressed against the waist of Olivia’s navy gown were no more dangerous than a measuring tape.
Olivia stared at their reflection in the full-length mirror.
She was sixteen, barefoot, and standing on the pale carpet of her bedroom in Newport Beach, California. The late-afternoon sun poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind her, turning the Pacific horizon orange. Her straight dark hair fell loose over her shoulders, and the gown she had spent four months designing flowed nearly to the floor.
Brooke stood behind her in a black off-the-shoulder top and short skirt, one hand pinching the fabric at Olivia’s left waist.
The scissors opened.
Olivia turned.
“What are you doing?”
“Fixing it.”
“No.”
“You said it was pulling.”
“I said the lining was pulling.”
“Same area.”
“No, it isn't.”
Brooke rolled her eyes.
At twenty-two, she had perfected the expression.
“Liv, I know how to alter a dress.”
“So do I.”
“Apparently not if you're still fighting the waist two hours before you leave.”
Olivia reached for the scissors.
Brooke stepped sideways.
“Stop moving.”
“Give them to me.”
“You're going to make me cut it wrong.”
Olivia stared.
“You shouldn't be cutting it at all.”
Brooke smiled.
Then the blades closed.
The sound was small.
A soft metallic click.
Then another.
Olivia looked down.
A narrow section of navy silk had separated beside the curved waist seam.
Her heart stopped.
“Brooke.”
Brooke continued.
“What?”
“Stop.”
“I'm almost—”
“Stop!”
Olivia grabbed Brooke’s wrist.
Brooke jerked backward.
The scissors sliced another inch through the outer layer.
Olivia screamed.
“What is wrong with you?”
Brooke released the fabric.
“Oh my God, calm down.”
“You cut it!”
“You moved.”
“I told you not to touch it!”
Brooke stared at the opening in the dress.
Then shrugged.
“It needed to come in anyway.”
Olivia could barely breathe.
“No.”
Her voice shook.
“That isn't a seam allowance.”
She pulled the damaged section outward.
Brooke had cut through the visible panel itself.
Not the hidden lining.
Not a loose thread.
The outer silk.
A curved slice now ran from the waist cutout toward the side seam.
There was no invisible repair.
Not in two hours.
Olivia looked up.
Brooke’s expression had changed.
Not remorse.
Annoyance.
As though Olivia’s reaction were becoming inconvenient.
“It's fabric.”
Olivia stared.
Brooke continued.
“You're acting like I cut your arm.”
“This is the scholarship dress.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Yes.”
“Then why would you—”
The bedroom door opened.
Diane Hart walked in.
She stopped.
Her eyes moved immediately from Olivia’s face to Brooke’s hand.
Then to the scissors.
Then to the dress.
“What happened?”
Olivia pointed.
“She cut it.”
Brooke laughed.
“Seriously?”
Diane looked toward her daughter.
“Brooke.”
“She asked me to help with the waist.”
“No, I didn't.”
Olivia’s voice rose.
“I told you not to.”
Brooke turned.
“You said it felt wrong.”
“That does not mean cut my dress.”
“You were standing there while I had scissors.”
“Because I thought you were checking the seam!”
Diane lifted one hand.
“Both of you stop.”
Olivia stared at her.
“Mom—”
The word came automatically.
Diane had been Olivia’s stepmother for six years.
Olivia called her Diane most of the time.
Mom occasionally.
Usually when frightened, sick, or not thinking.
Diane heard it.
So did Brooke.
Something passed across Brooke’s face.
Olivia did not notice.
Diane stepped closer to the gown.
“Let me see.”