“Stop screaming. You’re ruining the video.”

My sister was still smiling when I clawed at the back of my bridesmaid dress. Something she had sprayed across my neck and shoulders was burning. Not stinging. Burning hard enough that I couldn’t draw a full breath.

“Brooke, what was in that bottle?”

“It’s a bridesmaid prank, Natalie. Everybody does it.”

Nobody was laughing anymore. We were in the bridal suite of a wedding venue outside Columbus, twenty minutes before the ceremony. Brooke stood in her white gown, holding a little spray bottle wrapped with a pink ribbon. She had called it shimmer mist.

The venue coordinator took one look at my shoulders and reached for her radio. “Get medical help up here. Now.”

My mother caught my wrist when I tried to get past her. “Can you please calm down until we understand what happened?”

The coordinator moved between us. “She needs help. Let her through.”

In the bathroom mirror, I saw red patches rising across my skin. Small blisters were forming near my collarbone. Brooke appeared behind me, her veil trembling.

“You’ve always had sensitive skin.”

I looked at her reflection. “How would sensitive skin make this my fault?”

She opened her mouth, then glanced toward the phone still recording in another bridesmaid’s hand.

“Delete that.”

At the emergency department, staff flushed the affected areas, assessed the burns, and covered them with dressings. Someone helped me call a friend to bring clothes. My dress lay in a hospital bag beside the bed.

A nurse asked me to explain what had happened.

“My sister sprayed something on me.”

“Do you know what it was?”

“No.”

“Did you agree to it?”

I thought about Brooke saying, Close your eyes. A little wedding magic.

“I agreed to shimmer spray.”

Later, I gave a statement to a police officer. I described what I remembered, including the ribbon around the bottle. My mother sent a photograph from the reception. Everyone was smiling.

Underneath it, she wrote: We managed to save the day. Please don’t make this bigger than it is.

Three days later, Brooke called me.

“Why are there two cops at my door?”

I was sitting on my couch, wearing a loose shirt over fresh dressings.

“Because somebody hurt me.”

“They’re asking for the bottle. Tell them it was yours.”

Then another notification appeared. Hannah, the wedding photographer, had sent a video.

Her message read: Brooke asked me to erase this. I think you need to see it first.

I opened it.

And heard my mother say, “Not that one. That bottle is for Natalie.”

“Natalie? Are you listening?”

Brooke was still on the phone. I watched my mother set the ribboned bottle beside a makeup case. Brooke reached for it. Neither of them looked surprised.

“What did Mom mean, that bottle was for me?”

Silence.

“Who sent you that?”

I ended the call.

Hannah answered immediately. She had been recording details of the bridal suite before we arrived: shoes, bouquets, the gown hanging beside the mirror. My mother and Brooke were reflected in the background.

“I thought it was a personalized favor,” Hannah said. “Then Brooke asked me to delete everything from that room. Not just the pictures of you getting hurt. Everything.”

“Did you?”

“No. I kept the original files.”

I asked her to contact the officer whose card was on my coffee table. Before lunch, a detective called. He arranged to collect my dress and the photographs I had taken at the hospital. He also asked about products I had brought to the wedding.

“Nothing except lipstick.”

“Your mother gave us a different account.”

I pressed the phone closer. “What account?”

“She said you applied a cosmetic product yourself and developed a reaction.”

For a moment, the pain in my shoulders seemed far away.

“She watched Brooke spray me.”

“Tell me everything you remember.”

So I did.

That evening, Mom arrived with soup and a printed statement. She put both on my kitchen counter.

“It just says this was an unfortunate misunderstanding.”

“You told the police I did it to myself.”

“I was trying to keep your sister from being treated like a criminal.”

“What were you trying to keep me from being treated like?”

She stared at the paper. I asked what had been in the bottle.

“I don’t know. Brooke said she had a special favor for you. I helped set things out.”

“Then why did you tell them it was mine?”

Her face tightened. “Because you were supposed to let this go.”

I opened my front door. She left the soup. I put the statement in an envelope.

An hour later, Brooke’s new husband, Daniel, called. Until then, I hadn’t realized he believed I had left the wedding after an argument.