The private dressing room at the bridal store is just as lavish as the store itself. White tulle curtains hang on the walls, and a tiered, crystal chandelier glitters overhead. Hair Stylists, makeup artists, and tailors wait with their blow dryers, makeup brushes, and pins.

Avery sinks into the styling chair and lets her long, chestnut hair fall down her back. The stylist weighs it in his hands and twists it around his fingers. He piles it on top of her head and then lets it fall down again.

"I have the perfect style for you," he says. "Something understated and simple that will show off your gorgeous neck."

She nods and closes her eyes. Ever since the kidnapping two days ago, she hasn't been able to sleep more than a few hours. Between the pregnancy, the stress of the wedding, and Andrew's constant presence, she feels exhausted. She takes a deep breath and lets her body relax as the stylist arranges her hair.

The buzzing hair dryer and soft whispers of the stylists fade away, and loud wailing sirens fill the air. She looks around and sees the dank, moldy warehouse. The chains hanging from the ceiling start to stretch towards her, and she screams and screams until a man in a black mask slaps her across the face.

"This is your ex-husband's fault," the man shouts. "He shouldn't have called the police."

"No, it's her fault," another man says. "She must have done something awful to make her ex hate her this much."

Flashing blue and red lights appear, and the men run away. She listens as their footsteps fade. The sirens go silent, and she hears the steady drip of dirty rainwater. The dripping sound changes, becoming the ticking of a time bomb—she screams, and the bomb explodes, ripping through her body with searing pain.

She wakes up in the salon chair, gasping for breath. Her hands are clenched into fists at her sides, and her forehead is covered in sweat. Her neck prickles, and she worries she's been screaming again. It's the same dream she has every time she falls asleep. She takes a deep breath and uncurls her fists.

I still don't understand why he called the police, she thinks. Two hundred million is nothing to him. Why would he take the call and ask for so much information if he never meant to pay the ransom at all? What changed his mind? Hell, as soon as Andrew knew what happened, he was happy I'd used his money. He doesn't even want me to repay him.

"Miss Peters, are you okay?" the stylist asks. "You look like you're in pain. Is the ponytail too tight? I can try to loosen it a bit."

"Huh?" Avery asks. "I mean, no, I'm fine. I'm just a little tired. Do you think we can keep the photoshoot short?"

The stylist smiles and says, "Probably not. Most brides spend several hours getting ready and several hours posing for the photos. You'll probably be here all day."

She sighs and lets the stylist lead her to the dressing area. A tailor and two assistants help Avery pull the elegant white dress over her head. They do the zipper and walk in a slow circle, looking for last-minute alterations.

"Is Andrew here yet?" Avery asks.

"Not yet," an assistant says. "He called the shop five minutes ago to say he's on his way but stuck in bad traffic."

Avery nods and closes her eyes. An endless buzzing sound forces her to open them again. She looks around the room, wondering what's making the noise, and she sees her cellphone on the styling table. It's vibrating against the hard wooden top.

"Can you bring that to me?" she asks.

The stylist rushes it over, and Avery glances down at the glowing screen. Her stomach twists, and she drops the phone onto the carpeted floor. One of the tailor's assistants grabs it and hands it to Avery.

"Never mind," Avery says. "The call isn't important."

She closes her eyes and tries to focus on the gentle violin music in the background. Somewhere in the store, a small water fountain splashes, but it reminds her too much of the awful dripping in her dream. She opens her eyes and watches as the assistants fluff the skirt of her dress and pin along, a gauzy veil to her hair.

They take her by the arms and march her to a wall of mirrors. She stares blankly at herself. Her long chestnut hair is tied up in a simple but elegant ponytail, and her face looks soft and tender behind the light veil. The layered dress seems to sway at her feet, even when she's not moving.

"It's almost perfect," the stylist says. "But she's still missing something. Hmm, I think we have just the thing in the store."

He rushes away and reappears with a diamond and pearl necklace and a matching pair of earrings. The jewelry is simple, but it matches the dress. The short necklace makes her neck look even more delicate and graceful, and the earrings make her eyes sparkle.

"You're so beautiful," an assistant gushes. "Absolutely stunning."

"Completely," the stylist agrees. "This simple look suits you. But I think you'd be even more stunning in another dress. It's the best we have in store, and I've loved to see it on you."

One of the assistants shakes her head and whispers, "You can't let her put that on. The raw materials for that dress cost more than three times the dress she's wearing right now."

"She has a point," the other assistant adds. "If something were to happen, she couldn't even afford to have it fixed."

The first sighs and says, "God, I envy the bride who gets to wear it."

Avery clears her throat, and the stylist and assistants blush. She unpins the veil from her hair and steps away from the mirror.

"I quite liked my own dress, but now I'm curious," she says. "Where's this amazing dress you're talking about?"

The stylish looks at his feet and says, "Miss Peters, the dress you have is truly lovely. Don't worry about that other dress. A dress is just a dress, and a beautiful bride will make anything look lovely."

"Still, I want to see it," Avery says.

The stylist sighs and leads her into the main showroom. In the center of the room, a mannequin is wearing a layered wedding dress, covered in pearls. A male mannequin dressed in a crisp blue suit stands behind her with his arms positioned on her waist. The two figures are next to a large glass display case as if they've just been moved out of it.

"That really is amazing," Avery says, stepping forward for a closer look.

The neckline of the dress is stitched with small diamond chips that sparkle in the light, and there must be hundreds of pearls hand sewn onto the skirt. She lifts her hand and lets the very tip of her finger brush against the fabric. The cool silk feels as smooth as water on her skin.

"Hey," someone shouts. "You can't touch that."

A short, fat woman waddles over, looking like she might slap Avery's hand. The woman's coarse, gray hair is tied into a neat bun, and her jowly face is stern and hard.

"That dress is our best work," the woman says. "You can touch it if you buy it, but I don't think you can afford it. Not if you're wearing one of our simpler dresses."

Avery stares down at the woman in shock. It's been a long time since someone has treated her so disrespectfully in a shop. She steps away from the dress and smooths her own skirt.

"I don't know who you are or why you think you can talk to me this way, but I'll have you know I had this dress made to order," she says.

"I'm the co-owner of this store," the woman says. "And I don't care that you had that dress made to order. It's still a midrange dress, and you look very much like a midrange woman."

The woman leans down and looks at the skirt of the dress. She narrows her eyes and squints at the fabric and then straightens and glares at Avery.

"Did you touch it down there?" she asks. "It's dirty, practically ruined now."

Avery leans over and sees a small faint tan smudge—it looks like concealer or foundation. But the color is far too dark to match her skin tone. She checks her fingertip and wipes it against the skirt of her own dress—it's clean.

"What are we going to do now?" the woman screams. "This dress will cost us thousands to clean, assuming that it doesn't ruin the silk. It'll cost even more to take that panel out and replace it—we'll have to remake the whole dress."

Avery opens her mouth to say something but the woman gestures for her to be quiet. She spins around and stares at the tailors, assistants, and stylists in the store. Her gray eyes flash, and she puts her hands on her hips.

"Which one of you took the dress out?" she asks. "I told you, people, to keep it in the glass cabinet for a reason. I swear I'll find out which one of you did this, and then you can kiss your job and your whole career goodbye."

She turns back to Avery and says, "Can't you tell this is a valuable dress? When we handle them, we always wear gloves. How could you smear your makeup all over it so carelessly? Oh, my masterpiece is ruined!"

The stylist clears his throat and says, "Boss, remember what you always say about customers? They're always number one."

"Oh, shut up," the woman says. She looks at Avery and seems to notice the necklace, "Who gave you that necklace? And those earrings?"

"I did," the stylist says. "I thought they would look good with her dress, and I wanted her to see for herself."

"You idiot," the woman screams. "Do you have any idea how much that's worth? The necklace alone is $200,000. What would happen if she broke it or stole it, hmm?"

"This is ridiculous," Avery says.

She tugs the earrings from her ears and unclasps the necklace from her neck. She drops them into the fat woman's outstretched palm, hitches up her skirt, and turns to march back to the dressing room. A chubby, warm hand grabs her arm.

"Where are you going?" the woman asks. "You can't just leave without dealing with the dress you ruined."

Avery sniffs and says, "I was going to change out of this dress. Because apparently, I might not be able to afford the repairs if I damage it right now."

"Don't get smart with me," the woman says. "You're going to pay for that ruined dress or at least as much of it as you can."

"No, I'm not," Avery says. "I didn't stain it, and I refuse to pay for it."