Here come the Harris Reed brides. And they did not tiptoe. In the freshly reimagined ballroom at Claridge’s Hotel, four of them moved down the aisles wrapped in veils the color of magenta lipstick, cerulean sky, and seafoam dreams. This was the debut of Reed’s Fluid Bridal—four silhouettes, four moods, zero interest in playing it safe. There was the Camille, inspired by the sheer, slinky bespoke wedding dress Reed first made for Camille Charrière; a Chantilly lace, crystal-dusted cowl-neck shirt with flared pants that nodded to what Reed himself wore to his wedding; and the Debutante, complete with the house’s signature bubbly fishtail hem. These are brides who want drama, who want fantasy—more mermaid than anything tethered to a fixed gender.

But the wedding moment was just one chapter. What Reed really wanted to unpack was maximalism itself—what it means, and what it’s for. “Some people think maximalism is just ‘too much,’ or without intention,” he said of the 19-look collection (his biggest yet). “I use it as a tool to character build.” The show was still unapologetically theatrical—this is Harris Reed, after all—but there was a noticeable shift toward wearability. Not dilution. Expansion. “We want to affirm the world, the lifestyle,” he said. Staying rooted in London while growing the business on his own terms is key, with an interiors line launching imminently as part of the bigger picture. One thing is non-negotiable, though: “We’re never going to be a ‘jeans and T-shirt girl’ brand.” Correct.

The sculptural pieces that fans have famously repurposed as lamps at home? Still very much present. Lindsey Wixson opened the show wearing a gargantuan fuchsia bow skirt that felt more like an installation than a garment—and that was kind of the point. But Reed also nudged things forward. There were new tailored silhouettes, tiger prints layered into the mix, and devoré and moiré textures catching the light. The tailoring moved away from Savile Row severity and ’70s nostalgia, evolving into shapes with elegant panniers at the hips and open backs that felt freer, more fluid.

Elsewhere, corsets rose into face-framing necklines with halo-like loops; caged waists revealed slivers of skin against gold quilting, burnt cobalt velvets, and plush pink jacquards. It was still exaggerated, still indulgent—but there was a sense of release running through it all. Less armor, more movement.

And maybe—just maybe—that architectural jacquard bustier trimmed with Klein blue feathers does go with your bootcuts. In Reed’s world, fantasy doesn’t cancel out real life. It just makes it better.