Chapter 1
Chapter One
Scarlett
Isit across from Christina, my wedding planner, watching her perfectly manicured finger trace down the seating chart one final time.
Her office is small but elegant, tucked into a boutique firm on the third floor of a building in Lincoln Park.
Sunlight streams through the windows, catching the dust motes floating in the air between us.
"So the Bradfords at table three, the Blackwells at table one," Christina murmurs, making a tiny notation with her pen.
"Your parents will be at the head table with you and Miles, of course."
I nod, leaning forward to study the chart. Fifty to sixty guests. Small, intimate, exactly what I wanted. Or what I thought I wanted six months ago when we started planning this.
"The florist confirmed delivery by nine AM next Saturday," Christina continues, flipping to another page in her binder.
"Cream roses with eucalyptus, just like we discussed. They'll set up the arch and centerpieces before the ceremony."
"Perfect." I check off another item on my mental list. The photographer is confirmed. The caterer is ready. Everything is falling into place like dominoes.
Christina looks up at me, her expression softening.
"How are you feeling? Nervous?"
I open my mouth to say I'm excited, thrilled, ready. The words don't come. Instead, I settle for, "I'm okay. Just ready for it to all be here, you know?"
"One more week." She smiles warmly.
"It's going to be beautiful, Scarlett. I promise."
Three years with Miles. Three years of comfortable dinners and lazy Sunday mornings. Three years of him reading the New York Times while I worked on PR campaigns at the kitchen table. We got engaged a year ago, and it felt... right. Safe. Like the logical next step.
So why doesn't this feel more exciting?
I push the thought away, focusing on Christina as she walks me through the timeline once more. Ceremony at four PM. Cocktail hour at five. Dinner at six thirty. Dancing by eight. It's all planned to perfection.
"Your dress pickup is confirmed for Tuesday," Christina says, checking her notes.
"The alterations are done, so you're all set."
"Tuesday works perfectly." I gather the copies of the seating chart and timeline she's prepared for me, sliding them into my leather portfolio.
"I think we're all set."
Christina stands, smoothing her pencil skirt.
“You've been the easiest bride I've worked with this year. Everything's organized, everyone's confirmed, and next Saturday is going to be absolutely perfect."
I rise from my chair, slinging my purse over my shoulder.
"Thank you for everything, Christina. Really."
"That's what I'm here for." She walks me to the door, giving my arm a gentle squeeze.
"Try to relax this week. Enjoy these last days before the wedding."
I manage a smile, hoping it looks more genuine than it feels.
"I will."
The hallway outside her office is quiet, just the muted sound of traffic from the street below. I take the stairs instead of the elevator, needing the movement, needing to shake off this strange restlessness that's been creeping under my skin for weeks.
Three years with Miles. Next Saturday, I become his wife. This should feel more exciting than it does.
My phone rings as I push through the building's front door onto the sidewalk. The Chicago afternoon is crisp, October air carrying the scent of fallen leaves and exhaust fumes. I glance at the screen.
Mom.
I consider letting it go to voicemail. I'm not in the mood for her particular brand of anxiety right now. However, if I don't answer, she'll just keep calling, each subsequent voicemail more frantic than the last.
I press accept. "Hi, Mom."
"Scarlett! Finally. I've been trying to reach you all morning." Her voice is sharp with that familiar edge of manufactured urgency.
"I was in a meeting with the wedding planner." I start walking toward the corner where I can catch a cab.
"We were going over the final details."
"Are you sure about the venue? I was telling your father just this morning, hotel ballrooms can be so impersonal. Remember your cousin Jennifer's wedding? The Grand Marquis ballroom was beautiful, but the acoustics were terrible. No one could hear the vows."
I close my eyes briefly, searching for patience.
"The acoustics are fine, Mom. We did a sound check."
"And the caterer? Did you confirm with them? You know Jennifer's wedding had terrible food. Dry chicken, underseasoned vegetables. People were talking about it for months."
"Everything's confirmed." I raise my hand to hail an approaching taxi.
"The food will be great. Christina has everything under control."
The cab pulls over, and I slide into the backseat, giving the driver my address. My mother's voice continues in my ear, relentless.
"I just want to make sure you're really sure about this, sweetheart. Marriage is a big step. Are you absolutely certain Miles is the right—"
"Mom." I cut her off, keeping my voice level.
"I'm sure. Miles is wonderful. We're getting married next Saturday. Everything is fine."
A pause. Then, in that passive-aggressive tone she's perfected over the years, "Of course, honey. I'm just your mother. I worry. It's what we do."
The guilt trip. Right on schedule.
"I know you worry." I watch the city slide past the cab window, office buildings giving way to residential neighborhoods.
"I promise, everything is under control."
"Your father and I are flying in Friday morning. We'll see you at the rehearsal dinner that evening?"
"Seven thirty. At Marcello's."
"Italian?" She makes a small sound of disapproval.
"I hope they have options for your father. You know how tomato sauce doesn't agree with him."
"They have a full menu, Mom. Dad will be fine."
Another pause, this one loaded with unspoken concerns.
"Well, I suppose we'll see you Friday then. Try to get some rest. You sound tired."
"I'm fine. I'll see you Friday."
"We love you, sweetheart."
"Love you too."
I end the call and let my head fall back against the seat. The cab driver meets my eyes in the rearview mirror, a knowing smile on his face.
"Wedding?" he asks.
"Next Saturday."
"Congratulations." His smile widens.
"You should be excited. Happiest day of your life, right?"
"Right." I force enthusiasm into my voice.
"Can't wait."
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
The cab drops me in front of my building twenty minutes later. It's a nice brick building in a good neighborhood, well-maintained with a clean lobby and working elevator. I've lived here for four years, and I love this place.
I take the elevator to the fourth floor, keys already in hand. The hallway is quiet, carpeted, smelling faintly of the lavender air freshener the building management uses.
Home.
I unlock my door and step inside, immediately kicking off my heels.
My apartment is my sanctuary. One bedroom, but spacious and filled with light from the large windows.
The living room is open and airy, with my favorite oversized couch positioned to face those windows.
The kitchen is small but modern, with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances.
I've decorated carefully over the years—framed prints on the walls, a bookshelf filled with novels and PR textbooks, plants on the windowsill that I somehow manage to keep alive.
I set my portfolio on the dining table and head straight for the bedroom. My wedding dress hangs on the outside of my closet door, encased in its garment bag. The sight of it should make my heart race with excitement.
Instead, I feel... nothing. Just a vague sense of resignation.
I shake my head, annoyed at myself. This is pre-wedding jitters. Everyone gets them. It's completely normal.
I change out of my work clothes into yoga pants and an old Northwestern sweatshirt, then pad to the kitchen in bare feet. The kettle goes on the stove. Tea might help settle the restlessness crawling under my skin.
While the water heats, I lean against the counter and pull up my texts.
A message from Jane from this morning:
Jane: Can't wait for next Saturday! You're going to be the most beautiful bride.
One from Sarah:
Sarah: Rehearsal dinner Friday! I'll bring the extra bobby pins you wanted.
Nothing from Miles since yesterday afternoon. I send him a quick text.
Scarlett: Just finished with Christina. Everything's confirmed and ready. How are you?
Three dots appear immediately, then disappear. Then appear again. Finally:
Miles: Good. Busy day.
I frown at the screen. Something's been off with him lately. Distracted. Distant. I've chalked it up to work stress—he's been covering a big investigative piece about city council corruption—but there's something else I can't quite put my finger on.
The kettle whistles. I pour hot water over a chamomile tea bag, watching the water turn golden. Steam rises, carrying the scent of honey and herbs.
I carry my mug to the couch and curl up in the corner, pulling a throw blanket over my legs. My laptop sits on the coffee table, and I flip it open out of habit. Email is a mistake—three new messages from my boss about Monday's client presentation—but I can't seem to stop myself from checking.
Work. That's something I understand. Something that makes sense. PR campaigns and media strategies and crisis management. I'm good at my job. I know what I'm doing.
Marriage, though? I'm about to promise forever to someone, and I can't even muster proper excitement about the wedding.
I close the laptop and stare at my wedding dress across the room. It's beautiful. Ivory lace, fitted bodice, flowing skirt. I looked at dozens before finding this one. When I tried it on the first time, the consultant at the boutique actually teared up.
"You look like a princess," she'd breathed.
I'd felt like I was playing dress-up. I linger on the thought as I place the dress back in the garment bag and zip it up.
My phone buzzes.
Miles: Can I come by in a couple hours? Want to see you.
I type back:
Scarlett: Of course. I'll be here.