Chapter Three Brielle
Ibarely feel awake right now.
If not for the dread curling like smoke in the pit of my stomach, I would think that I was still asleep.
And if I was asleep, I should be floating down a dreamy river of bridal bliss. There should be violin music playing in the background and a cherubic fairy braiding my hair. Or something like that.
Instead, I’m sitting in a stiff chair in a small alcove around the corner from the entrance to the cathedral’s sanctuary. My mother hovers behind me like a hawk waiting to attack, and the hair stylist is trying her best not to show fear as she tries to tame a curl that keeps springing out of place.
“Hold still, Brielle,” my mother sighs for the fourth time in just as many minutes. “Honestly, you would think I’m preparing a child for picture day, not a grown woman for her wedding.”
“I am still,” I protest weakly, even though I’m obviously not. My leg won’t stop bouncing, rustling the layers of tulle fluffing up the skirt of my satin gown.
I feel like I’ve taken fifteen espresso shots straight into my veins, even though all I’ve been allowed this morning so far is a green tea with lemon and some fruit.
The hair stylist, a woman named Carly, clears her throat lightly.
“Nerves are totally normal, especially now at the height of the season. Every bride I’ve worked with this week has been—”
“Every bride? This week?” my mother interrupts. “I thought you said the Hayes-Montgomery wedding was your highest priority. I certainly paid you enough for that to be true.”
I let out a sigh, preparing to come to poor Carly’s rescue, but my mother has already moved on, stalking over to the nearest window to glare out at the city streets.
“I wanted to do this in Huntington,” she laments for the millionth time.
I don’t bother answering. It doesn’t matter anyway, and this complaint isn’t even my fault.
It was an ongoing battle between her and my mother-in-law.
My mother wanted the wedding to be held at a grand estate out on Long Island, where there would be lush gardens and velveteen lawns for the guests to enjoy before and after the ceremony.
But Richard’s mother insisted that we should have it here in the city, at the church in Brooklyn that her family has been attending for generations.
It’s a beautiful place, of course, but I have to admit that the honking horns and squawking tourists beyond these walls are killing the vibe a little bit.
Whatever. It doesn’t matter.
None of this matters. It’s happening and there’s nothing I can do about it, and at least it will all be done and over with soon.
My phone buzzes in my lap. I’m surprised my mother hasn’t snatched it away yet.
It’s that ridiculous gossip account again.
And this notification is not another post about what the rich and famous elite of Richard’s inner circle got up to last night.
It’s about the woman he was with at the club. The same woman he’s been seen with plenty of times since our engagement.
A woman who, just now, has decided to announce on her Instagram story that she’s pregnant.
“I think we all know who the baby daddy is,” writes the gossip account. “But with the Hayes-Montgomery wedding still in full swing this morning…”
“Brielle, for the love of God, put that thing away,” my mother snaps. “I do not want you distracted right now. Today is the most important day of your life!”
“So everyone says,” I mutter.
“What was that?”
I straighten my spine. “Nothing.”
My mother purses her lips at me, standing before me with her hands on her hips like she’s preparing to send an assassin into battle.
“Second thoughts are normal,” she says. “Lord knows I considered jilting your father plenty of times.”
I stare at her. Part of me wants to argue that, actually, it’s not normal to want to abandon your future spouse on the altar. You’re supposed to be excited on your wedding day. Nervous, sure, but ultimately thrilled to be starting a new chapter with the love of your life.
Of course, my father is not the love of my mother’s life. Their marriage, much like mine and Richard’s is about to be, was built on convenience, equal status, and a determination to keep New York’s old money within an exclusive pool of elites.
“I’m not having second thoughts,” I assure her.
It’s not technically a lie. If we’re being literal here, I already had second thoughts the day we become engaged. The third thoughts came the day after. Fourth thoughts a few hours after that.
At this point, I’m having thousands of thoughts.
But it’s fine.
It has to be fine.
Last night’s dream was a blip. I’ll never have a life like that. Never have the chance to indulge in my wildest fantasies or experience such uproarious desire or unconditional love. It’s not meant for me.
Maybe in my next life I’ll know what freedom tastes like. I have to endure this one long enough to make it there.
Pregnant. Fucking hell, his mistress is pregnant.
Will Richard give her hush money? Will he even claim the child? Will I be expected to accept a kid that isn’t mine into the periphery of my life as his devoted wife?
I sit with that for a moment. The alcove smells like fresh flowers and hairspray. Somewhere past the doors, the string quartet is finishing its last piece before the processional begins.
A baby. His baby. With someone else.
I think about what my mother would say if I showed her this right now, and I already know: these things happen.
What matters is that you handle it with grace.
I have been handling things with grace for so long that I'm not entirely sure what the un-graceful version of me looks like anymore. I'm a little afraid to find out.
I put my phone in my clutch.
At that moment, Dayna, the wedding coordinator, flutters around the corner of the alcove. She has an AirPod in one ear, her phone poised aloft in her palm, ready to bark instructions at whoever is on the other end of the line.
"Ten minutes," she informs us. "We're lining up the wedding party now.
Mrs. Hayes, the photographer needs to speak with you.
And Brielle, darling — one quick thing." She holds up a finger, already pivoting toward the door.
"There's a slight rise in the aisle carpet just past the halfway mark.
The cable for the under-lighting runs right alongside the floor candles on the left pew, so watch your step.
Lift your feet a little more than normal.
Shouldn't be an issue as long as you're aware.
" Then she's back to barking into her phone and sweeping out of the alcove.
My mother beams at Dayna. “I’m so glad someone is on top of things.”
Carly tenses at my shoulder. To her credit, she did manage to tame that one curl. It’s not her fault that I was born with a lion’s mane of thick hair.
I receive one last glance from my mother, which comes across as more like a warning not to fuck everything up than a tender parting moment with her only daughter. Then, with Dayna on her heels, she leaves the alcove.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Carly as soon as she’s gone.
“Don’t worry about it,” she laughs, coming around to face me. “I’ve dealt with the worst of the worst in this line of work.”
I manage a small smile, but my stomach is no longer a puddle of dread but a fully-fledged inferno of foreboding.
Fuck, I really don’t want to do this.
But I have to do this.
Carly adjusts a pearl-tipped pin one last time and then stands back to admire her work.
“You look perfect.”
Again, I try to smile, but I don’t think it’s sitting right on my lips, because Carly’s brow furrows.
She opens her mouth, perhaps to offer me some bland encouragement about normal bridal jitters, but then my father emerges.
At the sight of Alaric Trenton Hayes, Carly sucks in a sharp breath and quickly makes herself scarce.
Honestly, my mother is way more terrifying than my father, but you’d never suspect it at first glance.
My father is all stern expressions and rigid posture, monotone commands and cold logic.
But, at the end of the day, he’s actually fairly reasonable.
Between both of my parents, he’s definitely the most diplomatic one.
For the most part, at least.
Because I know that if I told him that I no longer want to do this, he’d take my mother’s side. He might even consider dragging me down the aisle himself. Anything to prevent their only child from making a fool of them.
So, I swallow my words and rise to my feet.
“You look lovely,” my father tells me. It comes out less like a compliment and more like a statement that should be obvious to everyone, but that’s just who he is.
“Thank you,” I manage.
He takes a long look at me, scanning me for flaws. I hold my breath.
When he finds none, he nods once. “Are you ready?”
No. Please, no. Please don’t make me do this. Please love me enough to let me choose a different life than the one you’ve designed for me.
“Yes,” I lie.
The music starts up, floating out from the vast hall where two hundred extremely important people are gathered to watch the event of the year.
I close my eyes, imagining it all going so smoothly.
My mother moving to her place in the front row, perhaps nodding politely at the mother-in-law that she’ll probably never truly like.
My bridesmaids tucking their hands into the crooks of Richard’s groomsmen’s elbows.
Callie, my maid of honor, leading the parade down the aisle.
Dayna’s head pokes around the corner.
“It’s time,” she mouths, giving a thumbs-up.
Suddenly, I feel like I might puke.
But it’s too late.
So, I accept my father’s arm and allow him to lead me out into the antechamber.
I feel the weight of what’s coming settle over me with profound finality.
This is happening. I’m about to marry a man who might never love me. Who might not only have at least one mistress, but a child on the way with another woman.
I am about to become somebody’s wife.
Whatever illusion of autonomy I might have had before today will soon be gone.