In her gown, Isobel stood at the arbor as though she had stepped straight out of one of Ryder’s dreams—too luminous, too rare to be real. Her right arm was looped through her father’s, her chin lifted in quiet pride. The lace of her dress—delicate, unyielding in its artistry—clung to her bodice like it had been spun by angels, curving along her neckline, spilling down into cap sleeves that rested soft as whispers on her shoulders. That lace carried down her back into a wide v, a mirror to the front, every stitch a testament to patience and care.
The skirt was full, cut with box pleats that spoke of elegance, yet—practical to the core—it carried hidden pockets. Pockets in a wedding gown. That was so Isobel. A woman who could carry roses in her hand and still keep a place for necessity, for
