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Scarlet’s gown drapes like liquid moonlight—sleek ivory silk with a plunging neckline edged in delicate lace, her waist cinched by a sash woven from silver thread. Cap sleeves cling to her shoulders, framing a backless design that trails into a cathedral train scattered with embroidered constellations. Instead of a veil, she’ll wear a crown of jasmine blooms, their petals dusted with iridescent glitter, while rubies drip from her ears—heirlooms from John’s late mother. John’s suit is midnight velvet, tailored to his broad frame, the jacket’s satin lapels catching the light as he moves. Beneath it, a charcoal waistcoat hugs his torso, fastened by obsidian buttons. His shirt is bone-white, collar unbuttoned to reveal a slim black tie knotted loosely. No boutonniere—instead, a single jasmine rests in his breast pocket, mirroring Scarlet’s crown. His shoes are patent leather, polished to mirrors, and on his wrist, a vintage watch with a cracked face—the one he’d sworn to repair himself but never did, because Scarlet adores its stubborn imperfection. Let them step into the chapel like this: her radiance sharp enough to cut glass, his quiet elegance a shadow meant to cradle it.
