Chapter 22
AMELIA
The next time I tell my husband that we have to give our people a wedding, or anything at all for that matter, I want to be reminded of this moment.
Right here. Trapped on the main floor of Blackbriar with my brothers, Marin, enough makeup for the entire state, too many strangers, and cramps that are trying to kill me.
The hair and makeup team (or the Glam Squad as Tim refers to them) is fully set up in the sitting room, which apparently now doubles as a production studio.
At last count, I saw six makeup artists, five hair stylists, a dedicated brow technician, a light tech who seems to just want to follow me around to ensure I’m always “lit to perfection” (Tim’s words, not mine), rosewater mist stations, multiple ring lights, and a signature mimosa cart with fruit.
Oh, and there’s a full photography setup happening too. Ethan might be our photographer for the actual ceremony and reception, but Tim brought another team in to capture this part of the day.
The photographer and her assistant have stationed themselves near the window with enough gear to shoot a Vogue cover.
Reflective umbrellas. Giant light diffusers.
Cables everywhere. And I’m pretty sure I just saw them roll in an actual spotlight, as if we’re performing a show here. I didn’t even ask.
It's loud. Kristen and Olivia just wandered in with champagne. Maddie turned on some music. There’s laughing, hugging, perfumes clashing.
And I’m trying not to stab anyone with a hairpin or any other sharp object I find.
To be more accurate, it’s Tim I’m trying not to stab.
Because Gage gave him an unlimited budget for this glam squad, and he took that as an invitation to go wild with things I would never in a million years have asked for.
This is my home. My wedding day. I could leave and find a quiet space. But then Tim would chase me down with a highlighter stick in one hand and a portable ring light in the other, yelling about how I’m disrespecting my undertones and threatening the visual legacy of this wedding.
“This isn’t just a ceremony, Amelia. It’s a curated experience. For your grandchildren who will want to see photos.”
That was what he said earlier. Before I told him I didn’t want lashes, the news I’ve just broken to him.
Colin’s trying to act neutral, which is suspicious.
Marin’s still blessing the space and chanting something about Venus.
I just want sugar.
“You’re not skipping lashes,” Tim declares, and you’d think by his tone and facial expression that I’d just suggested canceling the entire wedding. “You need lashes. Your vows will hit harder if you’re serving lash. Your wedding day is a moment. A bare lash will disrespect the moment.”
He holds a lash strip up. “This is not the day for subtlety, Amelia. This is the day for impact. You only get one first look. Gage deserves to be emotionally assaulted by your face.”
Colin snorts.
Tim ignores him.
“You can’t have this level of glam everywhere else and then just . . . surrender at the eyes.” His eyes widen with dramatic flair. “Do you want your eyeliner to feel abandoned?”
Marin looks up from whatever she’s doing in the corner and comes my way. “Honestly, he’s not wrong, babes. Skipping lashes on your wedding day is a vibrational misalignment. It’d be the same as wearing Crocs to your own altar.”
She mists me as if I’m spiritually dehydrated.
“You think this is about makeup, but it’s not.
This is about showing up as your full magical self.
” She gestures around the room. “This whole day is a spell. You’re not just saying vows.
You’re weaving your power into this bond.
You’re letting yourself be fully seen.” Her eyes soften, but her voice remains firm.
“You don’t go to your altar half-glammed.
You don’t step into forever at half-strength. You show up radiant. Whole. In lashes.”
Tim clutches his chest while looking at Marin with awe. “Thank you,” he breathes. “Finally. Someone with taste, vision, and a working crown chakra.”
He spins on Colin. “Meanwhile, this one sat in silence while his only sister tried to ruin her face and her future.”
Colin just raises his brows. He’s almost as unimpressed as I am.
Because whole. Marin really said whole.
As if glueing tiny synthetic hairs to my eyelids is the key to completeness.
As if decades of impossible beauty standards haven’t already wrung us dry, waxed us bare, and beaten us into submission while brainwashing us that we should be grateful for the ability to “improve ourselves.”
As if Gage, who’s kissed me while I had pimple patches on and loved me in every shade of tired, is going to look at my eyelids today and go, “Meh. Could’ve been more whole.”
God. I need sugar. Stat.
I slip out of the sitting room while Colin distracts Tim with a heated discussion over just letting me be me. The last thing I hear is Colin’s voice getting louder as he says, “It’s her wedding day, Tim. Not yours.”
Yes, yes it is. And I need some space and some silence. Even if only for a few minutes.
Unfortunately, I forget that Tim’s hired the equivalent of a full documentary crew for the day. There’s a soft beep behind me. Then a click. Then a voice whispering, “The bride’s on the move.”
I glance over my shoulder. Lighting Guy is following me. So is the photographer. And her assistant who’s struggling with one of those giant reflective umbrellas, a tripod, and a large camera bag.
I pause after I enter the kitchen and turn, exasperated but polite. “Guys. I know you’re just doing your job. But please don’t follow me in here. I need a moment. And I really need to find something with sugar in it so I don’t murder my brother.”
The assistant opens her mouth to respond, but Tim’s voice barrels down the hall before she can.
“IGNORE THE brIDE,” he yells. “SHE’S HAVING A TEMPORARY LAPSE IN JUDGMENT. LIGHT HER LIKE A GODDESS AND KEEP YOUR LENSES ON HER AT ALL TIMES.”
Then, muttered under his breath but still echoing just enough:
“She’s liable to disappear and destroy our content plan if we don’t track her.”
The lighting guy and photographer look at me. I look at them. And we all kind of freeze.
That’s when Gage’s mother appears. Her gaze is firmly on everyone but me. “Out,” she says gently.
Her tone isn’t unkind, but it’s forceful enough that even the assistant immediately starts backing away with a whispered, “Yes ma’am.”
Ingrid moves closer to me, radiating protective energy. Her presence is soft but immovable. “Please leave us,” she says, smiling now, as if this is just a pleasant social interaction and not a quiet takedown. “I need a minute with my daughter-in-law.”
The lighting guy retreats without hesitation. The photographer hesitates a second longer, probably remembering Tim’s threat to dissolve her soul if she misses a single candid, but Ingrid’s stare doesn’t budge. A minute later, she and I are alone.
My shoulders sag as I release a long breath. “Thank you. I think I might have hurt someone if you hadn’t shown up.”
She smiles, but there’s concern tucked behind it. Then she says something so unexpected it jolts me out of my funk. “I slapped Edmund’s sister and told her where to go on my wedding day.”
My eyes go wide. Then I laugh. It’s loud, surprised, slightly unhinged laughter that quickly turns into tears, because my nervous system is done and this is how it wants to process. Not because what she said is that funny. But because everything in me is overloaded.
And also because that might be the single most validating thing I’ve ever heard.
“She was far worse than Tim,” Ingrid assures me as she pulls a tissue from her pocket. “Trust me.”
“Okay, you can’t just say that and then not give me details,” I say, taking the tissue and dabbing at my eyes. “But first, I need sugar.”
A moment later, I’m rifling through the pantry while Ingrid checks the rest of the kitchen.
“How about these?” she asks, holding up a container of Tim’s signature homemade cookies, labeled: Healing Cookies. Do Not Touch Unless Tim Says You Can.
“Perfect. It’ll serve Tim right if we eat them all.”
She sets the container down, smiling softly. “No is a complete sentence, my darling. And I know you’ve probably said it to him already and been steamrolled, but just remember this is your wedding. You get the final say.”
I release another long breath, but it catches and does this weird emotional hiccup thing halfway out. My whole chest is buzzing. Every nerve ending is lit up. My heart’s racing for no reason. And instead of just agreeing with Ingrid, I open my mouth and word-vomit all my thoughts.
“I know. I know. I’m just . . . I’m a mess today.
And it wasn’t supposed to be like this. I pictured floating through the day, too happy for anyone to burst my bubble, but I got my period, and then Tim started vibrating at full dictator mode, and the lighting guy keeps FOLLOWING me like I’m a contestant on a reality show, and I’ve got all these feelings I don’t know what to do with, and there’s a LOT of people here, too many, and—”
She reaches across the counter for my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. It’s such a small gesture, but it means so much to me. “Of course you’re feeling all of this. Every bride does.”
“Is that why you slapped your sister-in-law?”
“No. I did that to get her attention. She kept trying to take over and I couldn’t get her to listen to what I wanted. But I was just as overwhelmed as you are.”
“You may need to teach me your method. Tim could do with a good slap.”
There’s a wicked glint in her eyes as she says, “It works. She’s never tried to take over again.”
“Yep, definitely adding that to my list of things to learn.” I reach for a cookie and take a bite. It’s soft in the center with gooey, melty chocolate. Soft and rich and exactly what I need. “Oh wow. These are good. You should help me eat them.”
“You know what? I’ve had a morning too, so I will.”
“Is everything okay?” I ask while we eat.
She waves my question off. “Don’t worry about me. Just usual husband and wife stuff. I love Edmund dearly, but we got into a tiny argument this morning, and that didn’t feel good.”
“I know how you feel. I let my hormones take over this morning and was snappy with Gage. That didn’t feel good.”
“Well, he’d better get used to it,” she says. “Men marry us thinking they’ve figured us out, and then spend the rest of their lives learning that our hormones have a schedule and they don’t get a vote. The good ones learn to bring chocolate and keep their mouths shut. Gage is one of the good ones.”
I laugh, feeling some of the tension leave my chest. “Did Edmund learn that lesson?”
“Eventually. After I threw a pillow at his head during our first year of marriage.” She says it so matter-of-factly that I nearly choke on my cookie. “He made the mistake of asking if it was ‘that time of the month’ when I was upset about something completely legitimate. He never asked again.”
“I love you so much right now.”
“The feeling is mutual, darling.” She smiles. “And for what it’s worth, Gage adores you. Snappy, hormonal, happy, sad—all of it. One cranky morning isn't going to change that.”
The way she’s so protective of what Gage and I have, and certain of her son’s love for me, makes my eyes prick with tears again. But the good kind this time.
“I was trying to make sure everything was ready this morning,” she carries on. “Outfits not creased. Shoes polished. My handbag packed. Our card for you and Gage sealed. I had everything lined up so that I’d have some time to spend with Gage and you before the ceremony.”
She pauses a beat. “Edmund had the hide to tell me to calm down, relax, and ‘maybe just go with the flow today.’”
She lets that land.
“He didn’t,” I say as that full-body ugh only men can cause ripples through me.
“Yes, he did. Go with the flow. As if I haven’t been the flow. Since the day we got married.”
“Did he survive?”
“Barely.”
Slow, knowing smiles spread across both our faces. We’re not mother-in-law and daughter-in-law in this moment. We’re two generations of women who’ve carried too many invisible things, sitting in solidarity. Sharing our messiness and vulnerability.
This kind of “I see you. I’ve been you.” moment always hits me deeper than a hug.
I need to know I’m not alone in my spirals. That I’m not the only woman who wants things to be perfect but doesn’t know how to hold it all together without breaking a little.
That it’s okay to care this much. To want the precious moments in life to matter.
To want today to feel like more than a dress and makeup and some nice photos.
Olivia’s voice filters into the kitchen, breaking our silence. “Amelia?” She comes into sight, joining us with a grin on her face. “Are we hiding or plotting in here?”
“Both,” I say.
Still grinning, her voice drops lower, conspiratorial. “Whatever it is you’re planning, I’m in. Just say the word.”
“How good are you with a shovel?” I deadpan.
She keeps a straight face. “Let’s just say that out of your sisters-in-law, I’m the one you’d want in charge of the shovel. Kristen’s nails would get too dirty, and Maddie, well we can’t risk the baby getting harmed.”
Both Ingrid and I laugh, and I actually feel my muscles loosen.
Olivia’s eyes soften. “You okay?”
“I am now.” I glance between her and Ingrid. “Thank you. I really needed this.”
“That’s what family is for.” Her expression tips into mischief. “Okay, let’s go back in. It’s time to make Tim cry.”