As Marissa steps into a bridal boutique, eager to find the wedding dress of her dreams, she is immediately met with condescending glances from two saleswomen. At 55 and Hispanic, she is well aware of the assumptions that often come with her presence. However, when the salon manager, John, unveils her true identity, the saleswomen receive an unforgettable lesson.
Walking through the doors of the elegant salon, excitement mixed with nervous anticipation swirls within me. This is a first for me—my first time in a bridal shop, my first time browsing through wedding gowns.
The boutique is just as dazzling as I had imagined. The marble floors gleam under the chandelier lights, giving the place a regal touch. And the best part? Rows upon rows of breathtaking wedding dresses, each one more stunning than the last.
But as I step farther inside, the atmosphere shifts.
Two impeccably dressed saleswomen in sleek black uniforms cast a quick glance in my direction, their gazes lingering a moment too long. I recognize the judgment in their eyes. To them, I’m an older woman who doesn’t fit the usual bridal image.
One of them, a tall blonde with an artificial smile, approaches.
“Can I help you?” she asks, her tone dripping with forced politeness.
I nod. “Yes, I’d like to try on some dresses. I prefer lace, but I’m open to different styles.”
Her eyebrows shoot up as if I’ve just made an absurd request.
“Well… these dresses are quite delicate,” she says slowly, as though she doubts I understand the meaning of the word. “You might want to be careful touching them with your… hands.”
I glance at my hands—hands that have worked hard, hands that are perfectly clean.
“My hands are clean,” I reply firmly.
She smirks. “I just mean, these dresses are very expensive. Perhaps something more… affordable would be a better fit. We have a small clearance section in the back.”
Before I can respond, another saleswoman, a brunette with a painfully tight ponytail, steps in.
“Yes, we have some discounted dresses from last season. That might be more in your price range.”
I clench my jaw but keep my composure. Instead of reacting, I turn my attention to a lace gown displayed on a mannequin.
“I’d like to try this one,” I say, pointing to it.
The blonde’s smirk widens.
“Oh, are you sure? That dress costs over $10,000. It might be a bit out of reach for someone like you.”
I refuse to let their condescension shake me. They believe they have me figured out—an older Hispanic woman, unadorned in luxury. Perhaps they assume I’m a housekeeper based on their remark about my hands.
But they are in for a surprise.
Right on cue, John, the store manager, emerges from the back. His eyes dart between us, sensing something is amiss.
“What’s going on here?” he asks, his voice firm.
The blonde shrugs. “Oh, nothing, just ensuring the gowns are handled properly. This lady was eyeing the more expensive ones, and we didn’t want any damage.”
She thinks she’s being clever. John, however, looks furious.
“This lady?” he repeats, his voice tightening. “You mean Ms. Morales? Soon-to-be Mrs. Shepherd? The new owner of this boutique?”
The saleswomen freeze, their faces drained of color.
“Wait, what?” the blonde stammers. “The owner? I thought Mr. Thomas owned this place!”
John shakes his head. “Mr. Shepherd, Ashley. Ms. Morales is engaged to him, and she has taken over the business. If you two paid attention to anything other than yourselves, you’d know that!”
A stunned silence fills the room. The realization hits them hard—they have just insulted their new boss.
John glares at them. “I should fire you both on the spot. And even if she weren’t the owner, is this how you treat customers?”
I turn to John and shake my head.
“John, don’t fire them. Not yet.”
He hesitates. “Are you sure?”
I nod and shift my focus to the saleswomen. Their arrogance has vanished, replaced by sheer panic.
“Ashley,” I say, looking at the blonde, “for the next month, you will be my personal assistant. Thomas and I have a wedding to plan.”
Her jaw drops. “P-Personal assistant?” she stammers.
“That’s right. You’re going to learn what this business is truly about. You will treat every bride with respect, regardless of her background. This job isn’t just about selling dresses—it’s about making dreams come true.”
I turn to the brunette. “And Matilda, you will study everything about wedding dresses—fabric, styles, veils. You will know every detail of what we offer.”
They both nod, too stunned to argue.
Ashley swallows hard. “So… what now?”
“Now,” I say with a smile, “you get me a glass of champagne and ask me what kind of dress I’d like to try on.”
Ashley scurries away to retrieve the champagne, while Matilda rushes to the lace section to fetch the gown I had selected.
As she holds it up, I ask, “What do you think, Matilda? Would it suit me?”
She hesitates, then replies softly, “I think you’ll look beautiful in anything, ma’am. But a sweetheart neckline might complement your shoulders even better.”
A genuine smile crosses my face. “Much better, Matilda.”
I know I have my work cut out for me in training these two, but they need this lesson.
As for me? I have a wedding dress to find.