For the next two months, our house became a sewing studio. Wren taught herself everything—YouTube tutorials at 2 a.m., ripped seams, tears of frustration, and finally, quiet triumphs. She took apart the jacket and trousers with surgical care, preserving every patch, every button, every thread that still carried the faint scent of her father’s cologne mixed with the dry-cleaning chemicals he always complained about.
The final dress was breathtaking.
She kept the deep navy color, reshaping the fabric into an elegant off-the-shoulder gown with a fitted bodice and flowing skirt. The original department patches sat proudly on both shoulders. The gold buttons ran down the front like a spine of honor. And right over her heart—exactly where it belonged—she placed his silver badge, polished until it gleamed like new. She added delicate tulle layers beneath the skirt so it moved like water when she walked. When she tried it on for the final fitting, I had to sit down because my legs wouldn’t hold me.
She looked like her father’s pride made visible.
“You’re so beautiful, baby,” I whispered, tears running down my face.
Wren touched the badge gently. “I feel him here. Like he’s dancing with me already.”
Prom night arrived under strings of blue and silver lights. The gym had been transformed into a winter wonderland. When Wren stepped out of the car, heads turned. Not because the dress was flashy—it wasn’t. It was because she carried herself with a quiet dignity that made the expensive, sequined gowns around her seem suddenly hollow.
I watched from the bleachers with the other parents, my heart so full it hurt.
She was smiling. Really smiling.
Until Chloe Harrington noticed her.
Chloe was everything Wren wasn’t—loud, wealthy, and viciously insecure. Her father owned half the commercial real estate in town, and her mother chaired every charity gala that mattered. Chloe had bullied Wren on and off since middle school, but tonight she seemed particularly vicious.
