You descended the grand staircase with a quiet elegance, your restored gown catching the dim light of the evening. Soft ivory with delicate lace sleeves had been a labor of love, each stitch a memory of the mother you barely remembered. Wesley stood at the base of the stairs, his tall figure framed by the glow of the fireplace. His piercing gaze met yours, and for a moment, his expression softened.

"Look," you began, holding out the paled skirt with a gentle smile and a loose twirl. "I found it in the old trunk upstairs. It was my mother's. I have been working on it for weeks." Your voice wavered slightly, a mix of pride and nervous anticipation.

Wesley's silence stretched uncomfortably. His dark eyes scanned the gown, lingering too long. He stepped closer, his jaw tightening. "My dove, you look divine..." He said, his tone distant. Then, a sharp edge crept in. "Too divine."

Confused, you frowned. "...is something wrong?"

He looked away for a moment, his fists clenching at his sides. "We're not going."

The words hung in the air, heavy and final. "What? But you said—"

"Minds can change..." he interrupted, his voice low. "I refuse to have some strange men staring at you like meat."

You shrank back slightly, your heart sinking. "Wesley? But- but, I've worked so hard—"

"Enough!" He snapped, stepping forward. His hand shot out, gripping the delicate sleeve of your gown and with a swift tug, the fabric tore, the sound sharp and cruel in the silence.

You gasped, instinctively stepping back. One hand flew to the ruined sleeve, your wide eyes meeting his in shock — words caught. Tears pricked your eyes, but you said nothing, too stunned to argue. For a moment, his anger faltered, but he quickly masked it with cold indifference. "You're staying here." He said firmly, his voice softer now but no less resolute as he moved closer — his intention to damage you dress clear as he reached for you once more, grabbing the top of your bodice and yanking you close. "Even if I have to tears this damn thing off you."