had once thought was too ordinary for a ballroom.

Diane tapped the photo.

“Everyone will remember that,” she said.

Maya looked at the badge resting on the table, silver frame catching the morning light.

She thought of the emergency room, of Robert’s failing rhythm, of her voice cutting through panic, of the scissors opening his expensive shirt because a living chest mattered more than fabric.

She thought of Elaine’s apology, of Tessa’s fierce loyalty, of Julian standing outside a fitting room curtain and refusing to decide for her.

Then she clipped the badge back onto her scrub top for work.

The gown had been beautiful.

But this was what fit.