The shadow was just a trick of the light. At least, that’s what Anya said, her back to me as she pinned the hem of the storm-gray gown. But her hands, usually so steady, had hesitated for a fraction of a second.

I left the atelier feeling like I was floating, the garment bag holding my "armor" feeling lighter than air. I didn’t tell a soul about the shadow. It felt like breaking a sacred rule.

A week later, I was back. I told myself it was for my first fitting. Really, I was hooked. I needed another hit of that intoxicating, creative air.

This time, I wasn’t alone. A young woman was perched on the edge of a velvet ottoman, her knees glued together, her shoulders hunched. She looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her whole. Her name was Elise, and she was getting married in three months.

“I just… I don’t want to be looked at,” she whispered to Anya, her voice so quiet I had to strain to hear. “All those people. Their eyes. I want to feel beautiful, but I want to feel… safe. Invisible, almost.”

Any other designer would have tried to sell her on sparkles and a train a mile long. Anya simply nodded, her gaze thoughtful. “To be seen on your own terms,” she mused. “Not to hide, but to be revealed slowly. Like a secret.”

She led Elise not to the bold silks, but to a rack of delicate, almost translucent laces and layered tulles in the softest shades of blush and ivory.

“We will build you a fortress of lightness,” Anya said, holding up a panel of intricate lace. “The illusion sleeves will be your walls. The high neckline, your shield. But the lace…” she held it up to the light, creating a kaleidoscope on the floor, “…the lace will let you decide what they see. You will be a masterpiece seen through a veil. Mysterious. Untouchable. Entirely in control.”

Elise’s eyes filled with tears. Not of sadness, but of relief. Someone finally understood.

As Anya took her measurements, I noticed something. On a small, cluttered desk in the corner, next to a pincushion shaped like a heart, was a single, wilted black poppy. It hadn’t been there last week.

FOOD FOR THOUGHT?

Who was the black poppy for? And was the shadow I saw connected to it? I knew I had to come back next week. I had to know what happened to Elise. But more than that, I had to know if the magic in these gowns was strong enough to protect us from whatever—or whoever—lurked in the back of the atelier.

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And the feeling returned, stronger this time. We weren't just customers. We were part of a story. And I had a terrifying, thrilling feeling that Chapter 3 was about to get much, much darker.