The morning came too early, sunlight slicing through the curtains of Dami's childhood bedroom. Her phone buzzed insistently on the nightstand.

A text from her mother: Dress fitting at 11. Don't be late.

Dami groaned and pulled the pillow over her face. She'd barely slept, her mind spinning through scenarios—Bolaji at the wedding, fifteen hundred guests, her mother's suspicious eyes, Tyrel's reminder that her debt kept growing.

Another buzz: Bringing the bridesmaids. You'll love them.

Bridesmaids she'd never met. Girls from her mother's circle, recruited like extras for a film production.

Dami dragged herself out of bed and into the shower, letting the water beat against her shoulders. In three days, she'd be wearing whatever dress her mother had arranged. Standing at an altar on a rented island. Lying to fifteen hundred people.

No pressure.

At 10:45, Dami came downstairs to find chaos.

Five young women filled the living room, all stunning, all dressed like they were heading to a photoshoot rather than a dress fitting. They chattered among themselves, taking selfies, laughing at private jokes.

Her mother held court in the center, in a coral wrapper and matching gele, directing the scene like a conductor.

"Ah, there she is!" Asake announced. "Girls, this is my daughter, the bride."

The girls turned in unison, their smiles bright and practiced.

"Dami, meet your bridesmaids," her mother continued, gesturing grandly. "This is Chioma, Zainab, Ngozi, and Temitope. All from wonderful families. You're so lucky to have them."

Dami forced a smile. "Hi. Thank you for... agreeing to do this."

Chioma, the tallest, stepped forward with a perfectly manicured hand extended. "Oh my God, we're so honored! Your mother said this would be the wedding of the year. Everyone's talking about it."

"Everyone?" Dami's stomach clenched.

"All of Lagos!" Zainab chimed in, already scrolling through her phone. "Look, it's on Instagram. Your mother posted about the venue. The Ibrahims' Beach Resort! An entire island! People are dying for invitations."

Dami pulled out her own phone and searched her mother's Instagram. There it was—a series of posts with professional photos of the resort, captions about her daughter's "fairytale wedding," hashtags like #LagosWedding2025 and #IslandRomance.

Over three thousand likes. Hundreds of comments.

"Mama," Dami said slowly, trying to keep her voice level. "You posted about the wedding online?"

"Of course, darling! People need to know. And the engagement photos will go up tomorrow after we take them."

"Engagement photos?"

"Yes! The photographer is coming this afternoon. You and Tyrel, very romantic, very Instagram-worthy." Her mother waved her hand as if this were obvious. "Now, let's go. The tailor is waiting, and you know how Lagos traffic is."

***

But the convoy didn't head to Lekki.

Dami noticed after twenty minutes that they were going the wrong direction. "Mama, where are we going?"

"To the tailor, of course."

"But Lekki is the other way."

"Oh, I found someone better. More affordable. Very talented."

Dami's stomach dropped. "Mama, where exactly are we going?"

"Oshodi. Don't worry, he came highly recommended—"

"Oshodi?" Dami's voice rose. "You're taking me to Oshodi for my wedding dress?"

"Ah-ahn, what's wrong with Oshodi? Good tailors are everywhere, not just in fancy areas."

"Daddy gave you money for the celebrity tailor in Lekki! The one everyone uses!"

Her mother waved dismissively. "That woman was too expensive. This tailor will do the same work for half the price. Your father doesn't need to know everything."

Dami stared at her mother in disbelief. The bridesmaids in the other car were oblivious, still taking selfies and chatting. But Dami felt something inside her crack.

***

The tailor's shop was exactly what she feared.

A cramped space off a busy market street, fabric piled everywhere, three ancient sewing machines crammed into corners, the air thick with heat and dust. The tailor—a small man with kind eyes and nervous hands—greeted them with excessive bowing.

"Madam, madam, welcome! The dress is ready for fitting."

He brought out the dress, and Dami's heart sank.

It was... wrong. All wrong. The fabric was stiff, the cut unflattering, the proportions off. When the assistants helped her into it, she looked in the cracked mirror and barely recognized herself.

"Mummy," she said quietly. "This isn't right."

"It just needs adjustments—"

"No." Dami's voice was rising now, anger flooding through her. "This is not adjustments. This is—" She gestured at herself. "I look like a fridge!"

"Damilola, lower your voice—"

"Why should I?" She yanked at the dress, tears of frustration burning. "My wedding is in two days, and I look like a fucking fridge. And it's all your fault!"

"Ah-ahn, watch your mouth!" Asake scolded, glancing at the tailor.

"No, Mom. Don't 'watch your mouth' me." Dami's voice cracked with rage. "Dad gave you money for Lekki tailor—Lekki—and you carried my fabric to Oshodi!" Her voice broke. "Who does that? For their only daughter's wedding?"

She pushed past her mother, out of the cramped shop into the blazing heat. Behind her, she heard her mother making apologies, but Dami didn't care.

She yanked open the car door, threw herself into the back seat, and slammed it shut.

A beat later, her mother slid in beside her, quiet for once. Inside the cool hush of the Jeep, Dami folded her arms tight, jaw clenched, refusing to meet her mother's eyes.

"Look, Mom, I'm not even surprised," she spat finally. "This is classic you. But at least—at least—get the tailor right."

Silence stretched between them.

Then, quietly, her mother said, "He will fix it, Dami. I promise you. Just tell him what you want, and he will do it."

Dami rolled her eyes, but when her mother gently touched her hand, something in her relented. Because underneath the anger was something worse—the realization that even this, her fake wedding dress, couldn't be right. Even this one thing couldn't go smoothly.

"Fine," she said, her voice hollow. "But I'm not leaving here until it's perfect."

Together they stepped back out of the car, the afternoon sun blazing down.

"We will not leave until this dress is right!" Asake announced to the tailor and the small crowd that had gathered, her voice carrying like a proclamation.

From the other car—where her two brothers had been dragged along as "security"—Tade, the older brother, and Tobi groaned in unison, their faces pressed against the windows like prisoners awaiting parole.

 ***

Hours passed.

The tailor worked frantically, adjusting, re-cutting, pinning. Dami stood on a makeshift platform, numb now, while her mother directed operations like a general. The bridesmaids had long since retreated to find food, returning with shawarma and soft drinks.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Tyrel: How's the dress fitting? Surviving your mother?

She typed back with one hand while being pinned: You have no idea.

We need to talk tonight. Tyrel texted back.

Another buzz, different number: Dami, it's Bolaji. Can you meet me tomorrow afternoon? It's important.

Her stomach clenched.

"Dami, stand still!" her mother snapped.

By the time the sun was setting, the dress was... better. Not perfect. Not what she'd imagined for a wedding dress—real or fake. But better. Wearable.

The tailor looked exhausted but proud. "It will be ready tomorrow morning. I promise, madam."

"It better be," Asake said, but she pressed a thick envelope of cash into his hands. More than they'd agreed on, Dami noticed.

Maybe her mother felt guilty. Or maybe this was how she showed love—throwing money at problems, hiring the wrong people, then paying extra to fix her mistakes.

***

That night, back in her bedroom, Dami collapsed onto her bed.

She grabbed her phone and called Eni, needing to vent.

He picked up immediately. "So... how's the dress?"

Dami laughed bitterly. "Just as chaotic as I thought it would be. Mummy took me to Oshodi instead of Lekki. I looked like a fridge. We spent six hours getting it fixed." She sighed. "But somehow, it turned out decent. Shockingly."

"Your mother is... something else."

"That's one way to put it." She paused. "What about you? How's your outfit?"

"Not too shabby. Looks cool, actually. Marcus helped me pick it out—apparently, he has opinions about fashion."

"Marcus? Really?"

"I know, right? Turns out gangsters can have taste."

Despite everything, Dami smiled. "Great."

The silence stretched, heavy and awkward.

"Dami," Eni said carefully. "You okay? Like, really okay?"

She stared at the ceiling, clutching the phone. "Define okay."

"You know what I mean. This whole thing... it's getting real. Three more days."

"I know."

"And Bolaji's going to be there. And your mother's suspicious. And Tyrel's—"

"I know, Eni." Her voice was sharper than she intended. "I know all of it."

"I'm just worried about you."

"Don't be. I've got this." But even as she said it, she wasn't sure she believed it anymore.

After she hung up, Dami lay in the darkness. For the first time all day, her fury had ebbed, replaced by something else entirely—a quiet dread she couldn't name.

Her phone buzzed one more time. A text from Bolaji: Tomorrow. 1pm. Cafe Neo in VI. Please. We need to talk.

She closed her eyes.

Three days until the wedding.

Three days until everything either worked—or fell apart completely.