6. Alexis
Alexis
My pencil glides in quick strokes over the lined paper—the only paper I could find lying around in the botanical garden’s bridal suite—as I sketch the outline of a short, summery dress.
The design is playful, with flared sleeves and a wide skirt, something anyone could wear and feel comfortable in, even if they’re not model-skinny.
I’ve always taken that sort of approach to fashion: that it should be accessible, something that makes people feel good in their own skin.
It shouldn’t just be about exclusivity or unattainable beauty standards.
My parents’ world, with its perfect models and high-end brands, never sat right with me.
The door to the bridal suite opens, startling me out of the trance-like state I go into when I draw. My mother enters, her heels clicking on the tile floor as she sweeps across the room with her usual air of urgency. With her, there’s a rush of air that smells like flowers and, below that, earth.
“Alexis, quit wasting time,” she chides me. “You need to be getting ready.”
Glumly, I nod, sliding my sketches off the vanity and into the wastepaper basket beside it. “I know. Sorry.”
“Now, the makeup artist will be here in five minutes,” she says, checking the placement of her own necklace in the mirror before turning to me. “I expect you to be ready for her. No more distractions, alright?”
I nod again, trying to ignore the sinking sensation in my chest.
“Good. You’ll want to look your best today.” Her voice softens slightly, as if she’s trying to reassure me, but the underlying tone of urgency remains. “This is pivotal for our family, and I need you to remember that. It’s quite possibly the most important day of your life.”
There’s a bitter, horrible taste in my mouth, but I swallow it, like I always do. Sometimes, it feels like this is all I am to her: a pawn, worth only what I can contribute to the family’s social standing.
As I pull my dress from the hanger, the fabric slips through my fingers, rich and luxurious.
It’s beautiful, no doubt about that, but it doesn’t feel like me.
It’s a classic silhouette, fitted at the waist with a flowing skirt that billows as I move.
The color is a pristine white, almost blinding under the bright lights of the bridal suite, but it feels more like a costume than an outfit I would choose for myself.
Still, I’ve always known my wedding gown would look like this. After all, my wedding was always going to be about appearances. “Classic” was the only option on the table.
In my mind, I can already picture the gowns I would design for myself—something simple, something fluid, something to encourage movement rather than constrict it. It doesn’t matter though, so I push the thoughts away. No more distractions.
The makeup artist arrives, brisk and efficient, her rolling case clicking across the floor as she sets up by the vanity.
Each brush she lays out gleams under the light, each palette filled with colors meant to enhance, conceal, transform.
As if she can paint me into something I’m not. Something I’m expected to be.
She greets me with a warm smile, and I have to force myself to return it.
As she applies foundation, I catch glimpses of myself in the mirror, my face adorned with layers of product that feel foreign on my skin.
The girl I see in the reflection already looks unfamiliar.
Like she’s slipping away, inch by inch, under the sheen of primer and powder.
It’s like I’m watching a version of me be sculpted, molded into the woman my family wants the world to see.
Every dab of foundation is another layer on the facade.
The perfect, beautiful bride. Ready for magazine covers.
Honestly, my mother is probably hoping for at least a feature in a few celebrity gossip outlets.
All press is good press, even though the authors of those pieces are sure to view this wedding as somewhat scandalous due to our ages and the widely-known fact of the arrangement.
She reaches for the contour next, brushing it beneath my cheekbones with a practiced hand. I stay silent, watching the angles of my face sharpen. She’s about to move on to blush when I hear the sharp sound of my mother clearing her throat.
“Could you do more on her nose?” she asks. I flush with embarrassment, which only emphasizes the problem—my nose gets red too easily. I know this fact about myself by heart, because she’s been telling me since I was twelve. I could recite her criticisms from memory, word for word.
This makeup artist, unlike the one who did my makeup for the photoshoot, isn’t argumentative. She just nods and dabs more foundation onto my nose, blending it in with careful strokes. I sit still, trying not to squirm, although I feel like I’m being peeled open and displayed.
“Are you excited?” the artist asks, an obvious attempt to break the awkward silence that fills the room.
I don’t respond right away. I know my mother well enough to know that I should wait.
Sure enough, my mother speaks first. “We’re thrilled,” she says. “This is the perfect match. So much more lucrative than what we had lined up before.”
Prior to my engagement with Gabriel, I was slated to be married to Travis Whitaker, a wealthy investment banker whose family has ties to several influential tech firms. My parents were content with the arrangement until Camille Thorne reached out, proposing something far more beneficial.
A connection to the Thorne family name, legacy, and media empire was simply too good to pass up.
The Whitakers were promptly dismissed, without hesitation or apology.
I remember Travis. He was handsome, in a glossy magazine sort of way—the traditional, male model look with chiseled features and thick, tousled hair.
He was closer to my age too. None of that helped my gut feeling, though.
There was something about Travis I found off-putting, for whatever reason.
Maybe it was the way he smiled too tightly.
Or how he looked through me instead of at me.
Part of me isn’t sure whether or not this is better. At least Travis Whitaker, when I met him, seemed truly excited to marry me, whereas Gabriel is definitely not happy about this arrangement. He looks at me like I’m a problem he’s been forced to solve.
So maybe this match isn’t better. Maybe it’s just a different kind of wrong.
It doesn’t matter either way. It’s not up to me.
The makeup artist falters briefly, clearly taken aback.
I catch her reflection in the mirror, her eyes flicking from me to my mother, then back.
There’s confusion there, maybe even a flicker of unease.
This clearly isn’t like the other weddings she’s worked.
I’m not like the other brides she’s helped get ready.
But she recovers quickly, pasting on a small smile. “That’s… that’s wonderful,” she says. I see the pity in her eyes when they meet mine again in the mirror.
I just nod, feeling my stomach flutter.
She finishes my makeup and gathers her tools without another word.
As she leaves, a few attendants arrive to help me into the gown.
They bustle around me, tightening laces, smoothing satin, pinning delicate folds of fabric into place with expert hands.
My hair stylist enters next, adding a few last-minute curls and tucks to my intricate updo.
And then I’m alone.
Alone with my mother.
She takes my arms, stepping back to take in the full effect of the gown, her eyes glistening with emotion. For a moment, I’m touched to see the tears in her eyes. I wouldn’t have expected any crying.
For one surreal second, I think she might actually say something kind. Something motherly. Something I’ve wanted to hear for years.
Then she says, her voice just above a whisper, “Noelle would’ve been such a beautiful bride.”
There it is. My stomach twists, a familiar rush of guilt going through me. Of course she would say that. Of course, even now, on my wedding day, I’m still just a placeholder for someone who’s no longer here.
She’s right too. That’s the worst part. It should’ve been Noelle.
It should’ve been her walking down the aisle in this dress, with our mother beaming proudly beside her. She was the golden daughter. The perfect one. And I’ve been living in her shadow for so long, I wouldn’t know who I was without it.
But I still miss her. God, I miss her.
“I know,” I whisper, my voice catching in my throat. “She would’ve been.”
Noelle, my older sister. When I was younger, she was my confidant, my role model. I wanted to be exactly like her when I was her age. The realization hit me hardest when I was fourteen, the age at which Noelle passed—I no longer had an older sister to look up to, to emulate.
She would’ve made our parents proud. She wouldn’t have flinched under the pressure. She wouldn’t have needed to be reminded to sit up straight or speak clearly or hide the redness of her nose.
The reminder of Noelle steels my resolve. She would have been perfect, beyond reproach as a bride, and I’m determined to do the same. I lift my chin, straightening my back.
Time to get married.
The hallway outside is softly lit, the glow of chandeliers casting shadows on the polished floors.
The faint hum of music drifts toward me, mingled with the low murmur of the gathered guests.
Through the glass walls of the arboretum, I can see blurred movement and floral arrangements towering like sculptures.
Each step feels heavy, laden with expectation and bittersweet memories. The weight of the dress feels like it’s pulling me down, but I push forward.
I wait near the arboretum’s entrance, as I was instructed during the rehearsal.
My father appears, dressed in a finely tailored suit.
He doesn’t say anything as he offers me his arm.
No compliment. No reassurance. Just the formal gesture, as if we’re sealing a business deal, which we are.
I slip my hand through the crook of his elbow, and we wait.
I can feel the nerves crawling beneath my skin, a tight coil of panic settling in my chest. My breath comes faster. I feel like I might float away or collapse entirely. I’m about to get married to a man I barely know. A man who doesn’t want me. A man who will never love me.
Then the music shifts, and the coordinator gives a discreet nod.
This is it. The cue for our entrance.
My father begins to walk, and I move with him, tethered to his side.
The moment I step into the arboretum, I’m enveloped by a wave of warmth and light. The intricate floral arrangements, each bloom carefully selected, are flanked by a backdrop of lush greenery. Everything in here feels so alive.
All I can focus on is the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
My hands shake. There are so many people here to watch this mockery of a wedding—I don’t even know how many, since nobody ever asked me to sign off on the guest list. It’s in the hundreds, probably.
The guests rise, all of their eyes turning to watch me. I don’t look at them. I can’t.
My father continues to march forward, slowly and inexorably leading me toward the altar, where Gabriel waits.
Gabriel.
He’s wearing a perfectly tailored tux, looking every inch the classic groom. His dark hair is neatly styled, and his eyes…
His eyes are locked on me.
Our gazes meet, and I feel something stir within me—something different.
Something electric.