This story is a response to the Muse on Monday prompt of March 2, 2026: Write a story about giving someone bad news.

The Off-White Showdown

I am truly terrified of this woman. She’s glowering down at me from the fitting platform, her eyes crackling like lightning on the prairies of Saskatchewan where I grew up. Oh no, I think my life is flashing in front of my eyes.

“Go check again,” she says slowly. I retreat into the back room of the bridal shop like a beaten terrier.

“She wants me to check again,” I say to Maria.

“You can check a million times,” Maria says. “We. Are. Out. Of. Alabaster. Lace. The closest we have is chiffon until next week. She’s the one that changed her mind two days before the wedding.”

“I can’t face her again.”

“You knew what you signed up for when you applied to work here,” Maria says. Maria ran out of sympathy a decade ago and never bothered to reorder any.

I go back out to the bridezilla, flanked by her salmon pink-clad lackeys. She’s looking hopeful.

“Unfortunately—” I don’t get any further before she lets out a bellow of rage and stamps her foot. The next thing I know, she collapses onto the fitting platform, shaking in sobs.

“I just wanted . . . one day . . . that was perfect! This is supposed to be my day. I only get one. All I wanted was alabaster lace for my gloves!”

“And you deserve that, honey,” one of the lackeys says, patting the bride’s shoulder and glaring at me. “I thought we came to a professional place, but I guess not.” She advances on me. “If you don’t fix this right now, I swear we will destroy you in the reviews. You won’t get another customer again. If fact, you won’t even—”

“Oh wait!” I say, slapping my forehead. “I forgot about the shipment we got yesterday. I don’t think we’ve even unpacked that.” I escape to the back room.

“For the last time—” Maria starts.

“Give me the chiffon lace,” I whisper.

“You’re playing with fire.”

“I thought that was in the job description.”

She grins and hands me the spool of lace. I rip the label off.

“Here you go,” I say, emerging and holding the lace in front of me like a talisman. “Sorry about that.”

The bridasaurus takes the lace. “This is alabaster?”

“Yeah, of course. See?” I hold up the off-white lace against my black shirt, as if this proves it.

“Oh, thank you! You’ve saved my wedding.”

“Eventually,” one of the other lackeys mutters.

I beam at the lackey with the brilliance of a thousand insincere suns. “I hope that if you ever get married, you will consider using us as well,” I say. Her look of fury almost makes the whole thing worthwhile.

In case you are wondering, the background of the title image is a gradient, with chiffon at the top, fading into alabaster at the bottom.