The knot in my stomach tightens.
Education had been my major before I met Richard. I'd put it aside when he suggested I focus on supporting his networking needs instead.
"You've been very patient," another voice adds. One of the groomsmen. "Not every man would handle those... emotional episodes with such composure."
I stiffen. What episodes?
"That's what partnership is," Richard replies, his voice perfectly measured. "Lori is lovely, genuinely caring. But she needs someone who can handle her more fragile moments, her occasional... let's call them misperceptions. After we're married, I'm making some adjustments to help minimize those disruptions. A new therapist who specializes in cognitive restructuring, for one."
Cognitive restructuring. The words echo in my head like a warning bell. Richard has mentioned this before, always in the context of "helping me see situations more clearly", which invariably meant seeing them his way.
"The honeymoon will be good for both of you," the officiant says. "Two weeks away from those friends who seem to unsettle her perspective."
"Exactly. I've already spoken with her closest friend, Marissa, the one who keeps filling her head with independence narratives. Very diplomatically explained how harmful that influence has been. She won't be an issue after today."
My breath catches. Marissa has been my best friend since high school. She's been increasingly concerned about my relationship with Richard, asking questions I've brushed aside. I haven't heard from her in three weeks, not since she called to express reservations about the wedding. Richard had answered my phone that day. I had assumed she was just busy, or perhaps giving me space...
"And if she continues with these emotional fluctuations?" someone asks. "My sister went through something similar, her doctor called it borderline traits. Made family gatherings excruciating."
"I've already consulted with Dr. Whitman," Richard says calmly. "He's provided resources and medication options. Once we're married, I'll have the legal standing to ensure she gets the right treatment if things escalate. Between the cognitive restructuring and proper medication, we'll get her stabilized."
The words land harshfully. As if I'm a problem to be managed, a condition to be treated. As if marriage would grant him the right to make decisions about my mind and body.
"It won't come to that," Richard continues smoothly. "Lori is most settled when she has clear boundaries and direction. She thrives with the right structure. Once she's my wife, things will fall into place."
I press my hand against my mouth, bile rising in my throat. This isn't love. It isn't partnership. It's a constructed cage, built with diagnoses I've never received, medications I've never needed,and a future where my perspective would be systematically dismantled and replaced with his.
And suddenly, with piercing clarity, I understand that Icannotmarry him.
The realization doesn't arrive with drama or tears. It slides into place like a key turning in a lock, revealing the mechanism of the trap I've been walking into.
If I marry him today, I will disappear—not suddenly, but gradually, inevitably, until the person I am ceases to exist.
I turn and walk back to the bridal suite, my steps measured and deliberate despite my pulse. Inside, the chaos continues with someone fixing a loose thread, my mother confirming details with the photographer, and Jen arranging my veil.
No one notices as I pick up my small clutch purse from the side table. My car keys are inside, along with my phone and wallet. I grab my coat from the back of a chair—a white wool wrap that seems suddenly inadequate against the December chill, but it's better than nothing.
My hands are shaking so badly I nearly drop the purse. I can hear Richard's voice in my head, smoothly explaining that I'm having another "episode," that I'm "confused" or "overwhelmed." I can already imagine the narrative he'd create.
"I need to use the restroom," I announce to no one in particular. Someone nods absently. I walk out, closing the door behind me.
Instead of turning toward the restrooms, I head for the service exit at the end of the hall. My heart hammers against my ribs, my breathing shallow and quick. The world narrows to a tunnel of polished hardwood and cream-colored walls.
I half-expect someone to stop me, to call out, to ask where I'm going, but no one does.
The door opens onto a small parking area behind the country club. The cold air hits me, biting through the thin material of my dress and coat. A light dusting of snow covers the ground, and my satin shoes are immediately soaked as I step outside.
I don't care.
My car is parked in the main lot, around the corner. I move as quickly as the heavy dress allows, the silk skirt dragging through slush and catching on the rough pavement. A tear forms at the hem, but I barely notice.
What matters is distance, putting as much of it as possible between myself and the life that was being constructed for me.
The parking lot is nearly empty, most guests haven't arrived yet. I spot my small sedan, the one Richard wanted me to trade in for something "more suitable." My fingers are so numb and shaking so badly that I drop the keys twice before managing to unlock the door.
Once inside, I crank the heat and pull away from the country club without looking back. My chest is so tight I can barely breathe. The trembling has spread from my hands through my entire body, making it difficult to hold the steering wheel steady.
I drive without any clear destination, just the burning need to escape. My phone buzzes repeatedly in my purse. I finally pull it out at a stoplight, seeing six missed calls from Richard and three from my mother.
