At nine, Brittany swept into the bridal suite carrying a champagne bottle and a smug smile, with Tiffany and the others behind her. The room was empty except for a small speaker on the table. I had moved the real dress to the second suite, and a plain white garment bag hung where it used to be. Brittany unzipped it, and I watched from the doorway as she poured red wine over the plastic-wrapped linen cover.

“Oops,” she giggled, and Tiffany snorted. Then I pressed one button, and the speaker played her own voice: “Spill wine on her dress, lose the rings, whatever it takes.” The laughter died. Brittany spun around, and I stood there in a robe, my phone in my hand. Behind me, Jake and Megan stepped through the door, and the hotel manager waited quietly in the hallway.