It’s a full-blown transformation.
Manicure. Blowout. Airbrush foundation. A shoulder massage that makes me feel like maybe I haven’t completely ruined my posture for life. They even fix the broken nail I didn’t mention and gloss my lips in a color I would never have picked—but somehow, it’s perfect.
When I finally see myself in the mirror, I know it’s me. But I hardly recognize myself.
I haveneverlooked better in my life. Probably neverwill again—unless I find a way to bankroll weekly glam teams and $400 miracle creams.
I step out onto the lawn for the photo shoot, my heels sinking into the grass. The light is golden. Everything is curated, crisp, and elegant.
And then I see him.
Goddamn, that man was born to wear a tux.
He starts moving toward me as if I’m the only one there. Purposeful. Calm. Like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.
“Feeling better?” he asks, his voice laced with concern.
I nod. “Je vais mieux, merci de demander.” (I’m better, thanks for asking.)
His whole face lights up—like I’ve surprised him.
“You look stunning,” he says, eyes trailing from my perfectly coiffed hair down the fitted satin lines of the dress. Then, with a crooked grin, “But I’ve gotta say, you were just as beautiful last night.”
I feel the heat rise immediately—maybe not on my airbrushed face, but definitely down my neck… and probably all the way to my cleavage.
Before I can even attempt a witty reply, we’re being called into position.
Some shots are simple—stand close. Smile. Some are more formal—his hand resting on my shoulder, both of us turned toward the camera.
And then come the ones of just the two of us. We link arms. We’re told to laugh. To look at each other like we’re sharing a secret.
Every time he touches me, I flash back to the dream.
To his hand stroking my hair, his body pressed against mine, the way I felt—safe, whole, wanted. I fightthe flush, try to stay focused, but it’s like walking a tightrope between memory and fantasy.
Serena, who’d been in full bridezilla mode yesterday, seems to have settled into something softer today. She’s radiant—every inch the polished, poised bride. earlier, there was something surprising in her expression.
When her eyes land on me and Carter standing side by side for a few sibling shots, she simply says, “You two look great together.”
No scrutiny. No calculation. Just warmth. Like maybe she’s decided I belong here after all.
Then, Carter pulls me in tight, presses a kiss on my forehead, and just as the camera clicks, he whispers, “I wish Mom was here.”
I tear up instantly. “Me, too.”
And the moment I step away, Spencer is there.
“You okay?” he asks, reading my face like a map.
“Yeah,” I say, blinking away the tears. “Just missing my mom. It’s hard not having her here today.”
He reaches out and takes my hand, his fingers warm and steady. He gives it a gentle squeeze. “I bet she’s here,” he says. “And I bet she’s proud of you both.”
Damn he’s good.
Soon it’s time to walk up the aisle, paired again. This time, when he offers his arm, I don’t hesitate to take it.
For a moment—just a moment—I let myself imagine.
