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Elena stood in front of the mirror, her heart racing as she envisioned the moment she’d walk toward George. The boutique buzzed with soft whispers of tulle and silk, racks of gowns glimmering like fragments of moonlight. She’d tried six already—each stunning, yet none feeling *right*. The first, a cascading ballgown with a cathedral train, made her feel like a storybook princess, but the weight of the fabric dragged at her shoulders. The second, a sleek mermaid silhouette, hugged her curves flawlessly, yet the snug fit left her worrying about dancing later. Her mother held up a third option: a minimalist sheath dress with a plunging back, its clean lines echoing modern elegance. Elena adored the way it moved with her, light and unburdened, but wondered if it lacked the grandeur the occasion deserved. Then there was the A-line gown—classic, timeless, with delicate lace sleeves and a neckline that framed her face like a portrait. It felt *safe*, but safe wasn’t what she’d dreamed of. The consultant stepped forward, clutching a hanger shrouded in tissue paper. “This one just arrived,” she said, unveiling a gown that seemed to defy categories. The bodice was intricate, hand-stitched lace blooming into a skirt of airy tulle, scattered with tiny pearls that caught the light like dewdrops. It wasn’t traditional. It wasn’t trendy. It was *hers*—whimsical yet refined, bold yet effortless. Elena slipped into it, breath catching as the fabric settled against her skin. The waist cinched just enough, the sleeves trailing into fingertip veils that fluttered when she moved. She spun once, laughing, and knew. This was the dress she’d remember—not for how it looked, but for how it made her feel: unstoppable, radiant, utterly herself. George would see *her* walking toward him, not just a bride in white. The pearls glimmered as she nodded at her reflection. *Yes.*
