Draped in a red, strapless Maria Lucia Hohan silk gown, I was elegance embodied… or so I thought until the universe decided otherwise. My only duty was to drive the bride from her final beauty appointment to the venue, a simple task for a trusted friend. But twenty minutes into our journey, the car sputtered, gasped, and died in the middle of the city. Two hours away from the altar.

Panic set in. Calls were made, favors were begged, but with time slipping away, there was only one option: a taxi. And so, the bride and I, her veil dangerously close to disaster, crammed into the back of a less-than-glamorous cab, speeding through traffic while she clutched my arm in barely contained hysteria. My silk gown, once smooth and regal, now bore the wrinkles of chaos, but we arrived... barely. With five minutes to spare, she rushed down the aisle, her groom none the wiser.

As for me? I smoothed my dress, exhaled, and strode into the venue as if I hadn’t just conducted the most dramatic wedding rescue in history. After all, a lady never lets a crisis ruin her gown.