The bridal suite smells like gardenias and hairspray. Morning light cuts through the curtains in long, pale stripes. You are laced in, buttoned up, bouquet already in your hands, and your hands will not stop trembling. Then something slides under the door. A cream envelope, slightly crumpled at one corner, your name in Fernando's handwriting — careful, deliberate, like he pressed down harder than usual. Rosalie picks it up before you can move. She reads the front, goes very still, then hands it to you without a word. This is the Mendoza tradition. His father started it. Fernando is doing it alone for the first time. The ceremony hasn't begun. But something already has.