Chapter 16
Harley
Wearing a white silk dress isn’t a fairytale anymore. I feel the stitch of every seam, the grip of the corset pressing into my ribs, reminding me I am a captive in a three-thousand-dollar costume.
The room smells of white lilies. They’re everywhere, their heavy, funereal scent creeping into my lungs until I feel lightheaded. These aren’t my flowers; they are Elaine’s. The floral equivalent of a Thompson watermark, stamped on the day to ensure no one forgets.
Lily is pacing the length of the Persian rug, her heels clicking a frantic rhythm against the floor. She still has a smudge of dirt on her forearm from where we were trying to hang the fairy lights earlier this morning, before the professional crew came in and tore it all down.
“I will burn this place to the ground,” Lily says, her voice low and vibrating with fury. “I swear to God, Harley, I will find the breaker room and shut the whole thing down.”
I close my eyes and envision my father’s hands.
I see the way his calloused fingers traced the grain of the cedar, the way he squinted through his safety goggles to make sure the dovetail joints were perfect.
He spent six weeks in his workshop building those boxes for our centerpieces.
They were supposed to hold wildflowers. They were supposed to be the one part of my childhood that stayed with me as I walked into this new, cold world.
And now my dad talked about picking through the industrial dumpsters out back, trying to find his heart’s work for his baby girl.
“Maria, tell her,” Lily snaps, spinning toward our stepmother. “Tell her we’re leaving. We can be at the airport before the first guest even yawns.”
Maria is standing by the mahogany door, her arms crossed tight over her chest. She’s wearing the burnt orange dress we picked out together, a color that now clashes spectacularly with the silver-and-navy nightmare Elaine has installed in the hall and ballroom. Her face is a mask of controlled rage.
“She’s a grown woman, Lily,” Maria says, though her eyes are fixed on me with heartbreaking intensity. “She knows what’s at stake.”
“What’s at stake is her soul!” Lily gestures wildly. “Did you see the ballroom?”
Tracing the fabric of my dress, I trace the lace on my lap. I think about the phone call with Skyler. The way he used his ‘management’ tone to tell me to rise above it. He knew. Authorized it, even.
“She’s smug, Harley,” Lily says, stopping in front of me.
“I walked past Elaine in the hall. She was adjusting a lily and looking around like she’d just conquered a small country.
She looked at my dress and gave me that pitying little head tilt, like I was a stray dog she was tolerating at a dinner party. ”
I can see it. I can see Elaine and Robert standing at the head of the receiving line, basking in the approval of three hundred business associates who don’t know my middle name. They’ve won. They’ve successfully bleached the Matthews out of the day.
And then there’s Amanda. I wonder if she’s out there in the front row, watching the spectacle.
The woman who did exactly what I was supposed to do—surrender, adapt, mold.
She became the perfect Thompson accessory, and Skyler left her anyway.
Because you can’t love a mirror, and that’s all she allowed herself to be.
“Let’s go,” Lily says, grabbing my hand, her palm warm. “Dad will be happy to leave. He hates his tie anyway.”
I glance at her, and then at Maria. When I pull my hand back, it’s not out of weakness.
“No,” I say. My voice is steady. It’s the voice I use when I’m standing in a courtroom, defending a child that the system has forgotten. “I need to see this through to the end.”
“The end?” Maria asks. “Harley, honey, if you walk through those doors, you’re tied to them. The paperwork, the vows—”
“I’m not walking in for a wedding. Skyler needs to understand. If I just leave, they’ll spin me into being the villain. I need to say my piece first.”
A slow, knowing smile forms on Maria’s lips. “You’re sure?”
“Completely.”
Lily lets out a long whistle, her anger shifting into glee. “Okay then. If we’re doing a reckoning, we’re doing it right. You need more lipstick.”
She applies a deeper, sharper red to my lips, obscuring the ‘bashful pink’ Elaine had recommended. Maria steps behind me, smoothing the lace of my veil, her hands firm and grounding.
“Your father will be at the back of the room,” Maria says, her voice low. “He found one box. It’s broken, but he’s holding on to it.”
I stand. The dress is still heavy, but it doesn’t feel like it’s dragging me down anymore. It feels like a goodbye. I head for the door and down the hall, all six of our heels clicking.
“Remember,” Lily whispers as the music swells. “If you need a distraction, the red wine is already on the tray.”
“I won’t need a distraction,” I say. “Just the truth.”
The mahogany doors groan as they swing open. The ‘Wedding March’ hits me first, played by a string quartet.
I take my first step onto the red carpet. It’s a vivid slash of blood-red through a sea of sterile white. Instead of the beautiful wildflowers I chose, white lilies erupt from silver urns like frozen explosions.
Disturbingly, every few feet lies the wreckage of wildflowers, shredded as if they’d been pulled through a woodchipper. It is the perfect symbol for this wedding: the Thompsons reign supreme, and my desires are just more debris to be cleared away.
When I walk past rows of suits and designer dresses, I note how these aren’t my friends.
There’s no Lily or Maria in these pews, no coworkers from the office.
These are the partners of Peterson and Klein.
Stakeholders in the Henderson development.
The type of men who have spent thirty years golfing with Robert Thompson.
“Is that her?” one woman murmurs, her pearls clinking as she leans toward her husband. “I heard her father is a contractor.”
My wedding is a business event to them—including my fiancé. A sort of if Skyler insists on marrying this woman, let’s use it to our advantage.
I keep my eyes forward, but my periphery catches Elaine and Robert in the front row. Elaine looks triumphant, her chin lifted, her eyes scanning the room to ensure the perfection of her design is properly appreciated. Robert is stoic, his arms crossed, master of his domain.
And right beside them, sits Amanda.
I have so many questions, ones I’m not sure I’ll ever get the answers to.
And then, I reach the end of the aisle.
Skyler is standing at the altar, looking more like a Thompson than I have ever seen.
His tuxedo fits perfectly, along with his perfectly styled hair, and his posture is as rigid as the limestone facade of his parents’ house.
When he sees me, a look of immense, staggering relief washes over his features.
He thinks he’s done it. He thinks he’s successfully ‘managed’ the crisis.
Because I’m standing here in white, the lie has been accepted.
He reaches for my hand as I step onto the dais. His palms are warm and slightly damp. He squeezes my fingers, a silent message of: See? We made it. It’s fine.
I don’t squeeze back. My hands are dead weight in his.
The priest, a man with a voice like polished marble, begins the ceremony.
He speaks of unions and traditions, of legacies and the sacred bond between two families.
I cannot fully listen, but what I hear is nothing about love.
He talks about the ‘joining of names’ as if he’s reading a real estate contract.
Then, the air in the room changes. The music has stopped, the guests have leaned forward. This is the moment they’ve all paid for.
“Do you, Skyler Thompson, take Harley Matthews to be your lawfully wedded wife?” the priest asks, his voice echoing against the vaulted ceiling.
In a clear, confident voice, Skyler says, “I do.”
The priest turns to me. “And do you, Harley Matthews, take Skyler Thompson to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
The silence that follows is a vacuum, yet Skyler’s smile is still there, expectant, hovering on the edge of his future.
I look directly into his eyes—the hazel eyes that I used to think were my safe space. But this time, I see the cowardice there. The months of lies, the ‘bribes’ disguised as gifts, Amanda’s presence, the dumpsters behind the club. I see the man who traded my heart for his father’s approval.
“No.”
The priest looks like he’s been struck. He fumbles with his book, his eyes darting between us. A collective gasp erupts from the pews. Someone drops a program. A chair scrapes the floor.
Skyler’s face drains of color entirely, turning a sickly, translucent white that matches the lilies. His mouth hangs open for a second, his grip on my hands tightening instinctively.
“Harley?” he whispers, the mask finally shattering. “What are you doing? Is this a joke?”
“No, Skyler,” I say, my voice carrying to the front rows, where Elaine has half-risen from her seat, her face a contorted mask of horror.
The ‘merger’ has failed. The red carpet is just a rug. And the Thompsons are finally, for the first time in generations, losing control of the room.
The silence is no longer a vacuum, but a heavy, ringing pressure, the kind that follows a bomb blast.
Skyler’s hands are shaking now, his fingers clutching mine with a desperation that borders on painful.
“Harl, stop,” he breathes. “Whatever this is, we can talk about it later. Just say the words. Please. Don’t do this here.”
“I gave you every chance to prevent this, Skyler.”
I don’t care about the three hundred strangers. I am only talking to the man who was supposed to be mine. “I told you that one more lie, one more ‘management’ move, and I was gone. Did you think I was joking?”
“I was trying to save the day!” he hisses, the sweat now visible on his brow. “I was trying to keep the peace!”
“You weren’t saving the day; you were saving your standing at the country club.
” I pull my hands away from his, the motion clean and final.
“You watched your father insult my career. You watched your mother throw my family’s work into a dumpster.
And you let them plan a wedding that belongs to Elaine Thompson, while I was at my father’s house thinking I had a partner. ”
Across the front row, Elaine has finally found her voice. “This is unseemly!” she stage-whispers, her face flushed a blotchy, ugly red. “Robert, do something! This girl is—”
“This girl is leaving,” I say, turning my head to look Elaine directly in the eye. For the first time, she flinches. Her design is perfect, her silver is gleaming, but she couldn’t account for a woman who doesn’t fear her.
Robert Thompson is standing now, his jaw so tight I expect his teeth to crack. He doesn’t look at me with anger; he looks at me with the cold, calculating eyes of a man seeing a bad investment.
I turn back to Skyler. He looks smaller, like a man outgrown by his own suit. “I know about Amanda,” I say. I was thinking of how she upended her life for him, only for him to discard her once she became the mirror he demanded.
“I can explain!” Skyler’s voice cracks. “We’ve only been texting here and there, and when she flirted with me—”
“Wait.” I lift a hand, the silence between us turning sharp. “What are you talking about?”
Amanda actually looks ashamed, but Elaine steps forward, her voice like ice. “Don’t be ridiculous, Harley. Amanda was helping plan your wedding. If she and Skyler were flirting, it’s only because you’ve been so difficult.”
“No!” Skyler shouts, but the damage is already done.
I let out a dry, hollow laugh. “Wow. I was referring to your previous engagement, Skyler. But it seems I’m behind on the times, aren’t I?”
“Harley, it isn’t like that.”
“It is.” I look from him to Amanda. “She planned your wedding twice. Unfortunately for both of you, this is her second time planning a broken engagement.”
“This is highly inappropriate,” Elaine says.
Ignoring her, I glance at Amanda. She isn’t staring at the floor anymore. She is looking at me with a terrifying, wide-eyed clarity. No longer the antagonist, she’s the warning.
I reach for my left hand. The engagement ring—the one I once loved because it matched my eyes—is stubborn. I have to tug it past my knuckle. When it finally comes off, I take his hand. I pry his fingers open and place the emerald in his palm.
“Your mother wanted silver,” I whisper so only he can hear. “She got it. I hope it’s enough to keep you warm.”
“Harley, please,” Skyler stammers, reaching for me again. “I love you. I’m doing this for us.”
“No, you’re doing this for you, Skyler. And now you don’t have to choose, because I’m making the choice for you.”
At last, I turn around.
No running. I don’t rush. Instead, I walk down the red carpet at a pace of a woman who knows exactly where she is going.
The guests are a blur of high fashion and horror. I see the ‘elite’ pulling their skirts back as I pass, as if my ‘common’ failure might be contagious. I see Bill and Cynthia Davis looking like they’ve just witnessed a train wreck.
But then, I see the back of the room.
My father is standing there. He isn’t in a tuxedo, but in his best suit, and his tie is crooked, and in his hand, he is clutching a splintered piece of cedar—a remnant of the box he made.
His eyes are wet, but he isn’t crying for the wedding.
He’s smiling. He’s looking at me like I’m the most magnificent thing he’s ever built.
Lily and Maria step out from the shadows of the vestibule. They don’t say anything. They don’t need to. We Matthews scum fall into step. A wall of burnt orange and denim and violet-streaked hair.
Behind me, a sound echoes through the ballroom. It’s the sound of a man hitting the floor. I don’t look back, but I can hear it—the heavy thud of Skyler Thompson falling to his knees on the altar steps.
The heavy mahogany doors loom ahead.
“Ready?” Lily whispers.
“Ready,” I say.
We push the doors open together. The evening air is cold and crisp, a shock to my system after the stifling perfume of the ballroom. It smells of rain and wet earth.
The doors close behind us with a definitive, heavy thud, sealing the Thompson legacy inside its silver tomb.
I take a breath. It’s deep, jagged, and entirely my own.
I am Harley Matthews. I am broke, I am single, and I am wearing a dress that cost more than my car. But as I walk toward the gravel driveway where my father’s truck is waiting, I have never felt lighter.
I’ve finally found the exit. And this time, I’m the one holding the keys.