Chloe
The bridal suite at the vineyard is stunning, which I registered distantly about forty minutes ago and haven’t thought about since. Instead, I’ve been sitting very still in a chair while a makeup artist works on my face and trying very hard not to think about what’s happening today.
The room smells like the white peonies and garden roses that have been arranged on every surface, and through the tall windows, I can see part of the space where the ceremony is going to happen, which doesn’t help.
I keep catching glimpses of white chairs being arranged in neat rows and wedding staff moving around with brisk efficiency.
It’s all happening so fast, the big moment barreling toward me with the speed of a runaway train.
The makeup artist is good at what she does, which I appreciate, because I need to look a hell of a lot more composed than I feel right now.
She hasn’t asked me to do much except sit still and look forward, and I’ve been managing both of those things adequately, which is honestly more than I expected of myself this morning.
I woke up at five-thirty and lay in the dark for over an hour just staring at the ceiling of my condo, unable to sleep, my brain cycling through the same loop of thoughts on repeat until I finally gave up and got in the shower.
She holds out a brush for me to take so that she can switch to a different one, and when I reach up, my hand shakes.
She notices it and gives me a warm smile in the mirror. “Nervous?”
“A little.”
That’s the understatement of the year.
“Don’t be.” She clicks her tongue, getting back to work with a light, practiced touch.
“Just breathe through it. Big days like this feel overwhelming right up until you’re actually in them, and then everything narrows down and gets simple.
” She blends something along my cheekbone.
“Once you’re up there with him, all the noise falls away.
You’ll see. And then comes everything after, all the good stuff.
” She smiles again, winking at me. “You’ll have the rest of your life with the man you love.
Compared to that, a few nerves this morning is nothing. ”
“Right.” I swallow hard, handing the brush back before lacing my fingers together in my lap. “Thanks.”
The man I love.
She doesn’t know the truth, obviously, and I’m not going to say anything to correct her.
But it’s the part after that has my hands shaking, not the ceremony itself.
The ceremony has a beginning and an end, and I know I can get through it.
The part after is three years of living with Tristan Thorne.
Sharing a bedroom and a bathroom and a kitchen and working alongside, and figuring out what to do with the unexpected tension that’s been bubbling up between us over the past few weeks.
When I agreed to this, three years felt like a finite, manageable stretch of time.
Something with clear parameters and a defined endpoint.
I had it mapped out in my head. We’d keep things professional and cool.
We’d keep a reasonable amount of distance, fulfill the terms of the arrangement, and then go our separate ways without ever having to speak to each other again.
But then he kissed me the second time, and I kissed him back, and all those plans stopped making sense.
“And… there. You are done, my dear!” The makeup artist finishes with a final light dusting of something and steps back to let me look at myself in the mirror. “What do you think?”
For a second, I don’t quite recognize the woman looking back at me—which is saying something, because I’ve been sitting here watching her work for the better part of an hour.
The makeup artist has covered the pallor in my cheeks and done something to my eyes that makes them seem bigger, bringing out the blue tones in the gray of my irises.
She’s also erased the dark circles under my eyes, making it look like I slept properly last night, which I very much did not.
The woman in the mirror looks calm and luminous, almost like she’s actually ready for what’s about to happen today.
After I give her a nod of approval and thank her for her help, the makeup artist bustles out of the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
But the reprieve doesn’t last long. The suite door opens again less than five minutes later, and my mother and sister rush in, their faces alight with excitement.
Behind them, more composed, is Adrian, the stylist who was hired to design my custom wedding gown.
“Oh my god!” Genevieve exclaims. “You look amazing.”
“Okay,” Adrian says briskly, “let’s get her into the dress. There may be some last-minute adjustments I need to make.”
The dress has been waiting in the corner of the room, hanging in a black garment bag in my periphery. I take a deep breath, nerves and anticipation intertwining as Adrian unzips the bag, letting the intricate folds of the gown spill onto the floor.
The gown is a breathtaking cascade of silk and lace, carefully designed to accentuate every curve. Adrian, with a practiced touch, helps me step into the dress. My sister and mother watch with adoring eyes, their joy infectious, even as a twinge of apprehension coils within me.
Adrian moves efficiently, making slight adjustments, ensuring the gown drapes flawlessly. As he works, Genevieve reaches for my hands, giving them a squeeze.
“Tristan’s not going to be able to believe his eyes,” she says. “You’re stunning.”
“Thanks,” I manage to say, even though my throat feels constricted. “S-so do you.”
It’s true, she does. Genevieve’s bridesmaid dress is a vision of contemporary elegance.
The dress is a floor-length gown with a fitted bodice and a flowing A-line skirt.
The silk is a luxurious, deep shade of blue that accentuates her figure.
She wears a pair of strappy heels to complete the look, and the overall effect is timeless and elegant.
She shakes her head impatiently, gesturing to the mirror behind me. “Oh, give me a break, Chloe. It’s your day. Look!”
When I turn to the mirror to take in my own reflection, my breath catches.
The wedding gown is a masterpiece, every detail crafted to perfection.
The silk drapes flawlessly, highlighting all the best parts of my figure.
The lace appliques delicately trace patterns along the bodice and spill onto the flowing A-line skirt.
The gown’s train cascades gracefully behind me, adding a touch of drama to the ensemble.
I knew the dress was expensive. I knew it was gorgeous. Hell, it’s tailored to my body. I’ve already seen it at least a dozen times, so there shouldn’t be any surprises.
But I never could have imagined how the whole picture would look. The combination of the gown, the makeup, and my perfectly-styled hair hit me all at once.
I’m about to get married.
Adrian steps back, his eyes assessing the final result with professional satisfaction. “Everything looks to be in order.”
Genevieve’s arms wrap around me in a tight embrace, the layers of the bridal gown rustling softly. It’s a moment of sisterly affection, a fleeting respite in the whirlwind of emotions. As she pulls away, a knowing glint sparkles in her eyes, and a mischievous smile plays on her lips.
“Consider this your practice round, Chloe,” she whispers, her tone conspiratorial. “You know, a dress rehearsal for the real deal. A few years from now, you can have a real wedding with a man you actually love.”
I swallow, uncertain whether my sister’s comment is meant to offer comfort. Her flippant attitude is entirely at odds with the turmoil in my mind, the tightness in my chest.
My chest tightens with a flare of jealousy.
It’s easy for Genevieve to find this amusing.
It’s not her life being upended. She’s not the one about to walk down the aisle in a marriage that feels like a transaction.
She’s not the one who’s been sentenced to spend three years living someone else’s life.
“I’ll see you out there,” Genevieve says brightly, releasing my hands. She leaves, and the stylist folds the garment bag over his arm and follows her. Now I’m alone with my mother.
My mother approaches me, a portrait of poised elegance, a spark of maternal pride in her eyes. She places a delicate hand on my shoulder, the touch feather-light but laden with unspoken expectations. “Chloe, my dear, you look absolutely stunning.”
I freeze under her touch, suddenly even more uncomfortable.
A wistful smile plays on her lips as she continues, “Marrying Tristan is a significant step. Today, just remember that this is about securing the family legacy. And I am so, so proud of you.”
I can’t help but feel a twinge of bitterness.
She’s proud of me now, proud of this extravagant wedding, of walking down the aisle to marry a man I barely know.
Where was that pride when I graduated business school?
When I successfully closed a major deal?
When I secured a crucial partnership for the company?
She’s never been proud of the things that truly matter to me.
With a distant smile, I close off my emotions, building a protective barrier around myself. It’s a familiar defense mechanism, one I’ve honed over the years.
Behind the facade of politeness, a part of me recoils, withdrawing into the recesses of my mind where I can shield myself from the sting of this subtle rejection. It’s a lonely place, but in this moment, it’s where I find solace, cocooned in my own thoughts and feelings.
My parents have never ventured beyond the surface, never bothered to peel back the layers and discover the intricacies of the person standing before them.
Hell, maybe they never truly wanted to. The image they’ve crafted of their ideal daughter, molded by societal norms and family legacies, is nothing. And yet it’s all they’ve ever wanted.