Three
Present day
Piper
Ezra is framed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of our hotel suite, the town lights below us looking like a spilled bag of diamonds. His jacket is already on, but his tie hangs loosely around his neck.
It’s almost time. My stomach does a slow, nauseating somersault that I choose to label as excitement.
He turns when the bathroom door clicks shut. “Hey,” he says, his smile hitting that perfect, practiced frequency. “There you are.”
I smile back. I have to. Because I love him. Because we’ve spent eighteen months and a small fortune on floral arrangements and seating charts. Because tomorrow, I’m becoming a wife.
He crosses the room, his hands warm on my back. I melt into the contact, leaning into the familiar weight of him because it’s easier than standing on my own. For three seconds, the tightness in my chest—the one that’s been there for months—actually eases.
“I can’t believe it’s finally here,” he mumbles against my temple. “One more night.”
“I know.” I have to clear my throat so my voice doesn’t come out in a pathetic crack. “It feels… unreal.”
“It’s going to be perfect.” He pulls back just enough to study me, his thumb grazing my cheekbone. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just jittery.”
He holds my gaze for a beat too long, checking for cracks in the foundation, then nods. “Good.”
I step back, heading toward the wardrobe to reclaim some breathing room. Reaching for the dress bag at the far end, my fingers brush the fabric I chose weeks ago. It’s simple. It’s soft. It feels like a version of myself I actually recognize.
“I’ll put this on,” I tell him, unzipping the bag. “We should head down soon.”
“No.”
The word is like a sudden fence post driven into the middle of the room. I pause, my hand still hooked on the hanger.
“Wear the cream one,” Ezra says. “That’s what we agreed.”
I glance back, a small, confused laugh bubbling up. “Did we? I thought this was fine. I really like the way this one fits.”
He exhales, as if I’m a difficult child. “I said wear the cream one, Piper.”
I laugh again because that’s my instinct. When the tension rises too much, I try to joke my way out of the burning building. “Okay, but it’s not like I’m wearing a neon tracksuit. This is a nice dress.”
He steps closer, his voice dropping an octave. “You’re about to become my wife. You need to look and act the part.”
Embarrassment flares in my chest. I feel stupid for not anticipating this. For thinking my opinion on my own body mattered more than the “brand” we’re building.
“I just thought—”
“I know what you thought,” he interrupts, his smile returning, but not reaching his eyes. “And I’m telling you what I want.”
The lump in my throat threatens to choke me, but I swallow it down. I nod because it’s easier to change a dress than to start a war ten hours before the “I dos.” This isn’t the hill to die on.
“Okay,” I say quietly.
I trade the dress for the cream one, and retreat into the bathroom like a wounded animal. Leaning against the cool wood of the door, I press my palms flat against it.
Don’t cry. Do not cry.
My eyes burn. I blink rapidly, staring at the ceiling until the feeling retreats.
Not now, Piper. Not tonight.
When I step back out, Ezra’s expression has softened. The storm has passed because he got his way.
“There,” he says, beaming. “That’s perfect.” He smooths his hands down my arms, claiming the territory. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I breathe. I want to believe him.
He kisses my cheek, then my lips. “See? Much better.”
The praise settles over me, a temporary bandage on a deepening wound. I let it. I have to let it.
I walk up to the mirror to check my earrings and accidentally catch my reflection. I don’t stare for long. Lately, I’ve noticed I tend to avoid my own reflection whenever I can.
Still, in that brief flash, I catalogue the glitches:
The dress fits, but it’s not mine.
My smile is a lie.
I look like I’m playing a part I never auditioned for.
“You ready?” Ezra asks.
The sound of his voice snaps the tether.
“Yes,” I say, turning away from the glass. “I’m ready.”
He takes my hand and leads me toward the door. As it opens, that familiar knot in my stomach cinches tight.
You love him, I tell myself. You’re getting married tomorrow. This is the plan.
The door clicks shut behind us, and for reasons I’m too tired to unpack, the quiet of the hallway feels louder than the entire town below us.