Chapter 19 #3
Several hours later, I stare at my reflection.
Smoky shadow widens my eyes, and my skin glows from the esthetician's magic.
Gone are the shadows beneath my eyes and my chapped lips.
Even my sparse eyelashes now fan out thick and dark—extensions I'm definitely keeping.
The hair team created an elegant half-updo secured with diamond pins worth more than my mortgage, while the rest of my usually unruly curls cascade down my back in gentle waves.
I touch it, surprised by its kitten-soft texture.
This polished stranger in the mirror bears no resemblance to the exhausted development exec who walked in earlier.
When I stand, the wedding dress transforms. Pale ivory silk cascades from the structured bodice, cool against my skin where the back dips low.
It hugs my waist before releasing into a skirt that whispers with each step, gathering in folds that catch the light like moon on water.
At my collar, Belgian lace forms a delicate edge so fine it seems to float.
Nothing fussy—just understated elegance that costs more than five years of my mortgage.
For once, I don't look like I'm drowning in someone else's clothes.
"Not bad," I whisper to my reflection. "Not bad at all. "
The three girls—Lexi with her champagne flute frozen halfway to her lips, Tally clutching the doorframe as if she might faint, and Olivia whose mascara-rimmed eyes have gone so wide they might pop from her skull—are looking at me like I'm the Venus coming out of the half shell in that famous Botticelli painting.
They're speechless, mouths hanging open in perfect O's, as if the oxygen has been sucked from the room and replaced with pure, unfiltered astonishment.
Tally's eyes shimmer with unshed tears as she takes in the transformation.
"Oh, Celeste," she whispers, her voice catching.
"That champagne silk drapes like it was made for you.
The way it catches the light when you move...
" She circles me slowly, fingertips hovering just above the delicate beadwork at the neckline.
"Stunning! For once, you won't look like the hired help at one of their Malibu galas. "
I laugh at Tally's transformation from fashion critic to stammering fangirl.
Olivia blinks back mascara-smudged tears while Lexi's freckled cheeks flush pink, all of us tangled in a cloud of designer perfume and hairspray.
Their approval echoes off the mirrored walls as I bite my trembling lip.
The stranger in the reflection—hair swept up, silk hugging my curves—finally looks like she belongs beside Max.
For once, I won't be Instagram's punching bag.
And now, it's time. The sleek black limousine idles at the curb, waiting to ferry us to St. John's Episcopal on Adams. Ironic choice—I abandoned Catholicism after Dad died, and Max is agnostic according to my late-night Googling.
Not like we've discussed religion, or much of anything.
I doubt any Kensington has darkened a church door in years, except with checkbook in hand.
Joseph must have made quite the donation to secure a bishop in full regalia for our little charade.
The ceremony, like the marriage itself, is just window-dressing. Fitting, really.
As we head to the limo, I smooth my hands over the silk of my Vera Wang dress, its champagne color catching the late afternoon light.
The stylist's magic has transformed me into a socialite bride, but dread still twists in my stomach like ice.
My reflection shows a stranger—perfect makeup, elaborate updo—yet my eyes betray the truth.
I can wear this costume for now, but becoming Mrs. Max Kensington demands more than designer labels and borrowed diamonds.
My manicured hands tremble against the beaded clutch, terrified of being exposed as the fraud I am.
As I step from the limo, a tsunami of flashbulbs crashes over me, burning my retinas even through closed eyelids.
Jesus Christ. The crowd roars—hundreds of bodies pressing against security barricades, their faces contorted with a hunger that makes my skin crawl.
Security guards in full riot gear form a human wall between me and them, as if I'm the President, not some development exec in a dress worth more than five years of my annual salary.
"CELESTE! CELESTE!" They're screaming my name like I'm supposed to know them.
"HOW DOES IT FEEL MARRYING MAX?" one shrieks.
What am I supposed to say? That my stomach is a concrete mixer?
That I'm selling myself like medieval chattel?
That I'd rather walk naked through Times Square than down this aisle?
"ARE YOU MARRYING FOR MONEY?" The question slices through me. Yes, you vulture. Yes. I'm whoring myself for cash because my mother is dying and my sister deserves a future. But the truth sticks in my throat like a fishbone.
"WAS IT LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT?" someone howls, and I almost laugh. Love? It was pure, visceral loathing. Still is. I'd sooner fall for a rattlesnake.
"WHO ARE YOU WEARING?" A fashion blogger thrusts her microphone at my face. I jab my finger at her, mouthing "Vera Wang," and she practically orgasms on the spot.
I finally breach the church doors, gasping like I've been underwater. The paparazzi fade to white noise. And there he is. Max. Waiting. My chest constricts so violently I might pass out.
I am so monumentally, catastrophically fucked.