“I’ve already had several inquiries from collectors who saw the preview materials. I think you’re going to be very happy with the response.”
This should be the moment when everything feels worth it. All the years of struggle, all the rejection letters. This showing represents everything I’ve worked toward.
But standing here, looking at my art displayed like the work of a real artist, I feel nothing. Well, not nothing. I feel empty.
I have success, and yet it means nothing, because after this showing, I’ll be going on a honeymoon with a man who doesn’t love me, and what is success if you don’t have someone meaningful to share it with?
“I should probably head to my next appointment,” I say, suddenly desperate to leave the gallery. “Dress fitting.”
“Of course. But Freya? This is just the beginning for you. After people see your work Monday night, everything is going to change.”
Everything already has changed, I want to tell him. Just not in the way he thinks.
The drive to the bridal salon takes twenty minutes through Chicago traffic, giving me time to try to shift my mindset from melancholy artist to excited bride. By the time I park, I’ve managed to construct something resembling enthusiasm for the final dress fitting.
Bella is already waiting inside, chatting with the saleswoman who handled all my alterations. She lights up when she sees me, practically bouncing with excitement.
“There’s the bride!” she says, pulling me into a hug. “Are you ready to see yourself in perfection?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
The dress is everything we hoped it would be after alterations. The silk flows perfectly, the neckline is exactly right, and the train creates an elegant line behind me without being overwhelming. When I step out of the dressing room, Bella audibly gasps.
“Freya, you look…” She trails off, pressing her hand to her mouth. “You look like a princess.”
I turn to look at myself in the three-way mirror, and she’s right. The dress is absolutely perfect. It fits like it was designed specifically for my body, and the color—ivory with just a hintof warmth—complements my skin tone beautifully. My hair is pulled back in a simple style for the fitting, but I can imagine how it will look tomorrow with professional styling and makeup.
I look like a woman who’s about to marry the man of her dreams.
Which makes it even more heartbreaking that this is all pretend.
“The fit is excellent,” the saleswoman says, circling around me to check every seam. “Just a tiny adjustment needed at the waist, but nothing major. You’ll be absolutely stunning tomorrow.”
Bella is still staring at me with tears in her eyes. “Ben’s gonna die when he sees you walking down that aisle.”
Will he? Or will he be completely ambivalent, his mind focused on his wind turbine deal?
“Hey.” Bella’s voice carries a note of concern. “Are you okay? You look like you might be sick.”
I catch my reflection in the mirror again, and I can see what she means. Despite the beautiful dress and the perfect fit, I look pale, strained. Like someone who’s about to face execution rather than marriage.
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just wedding nerves.”
“Are you sure? Because if you’re having second thoughts?—”
“I’m not having second thoughts.”
But as I say it, something inside me snaps. The careful control I’ve been maintaining for two months suddenly crumbles, and before I can stop myself, I’m sobbing. Not delicate tears that might be attributed to bridal emotion, but ugly, heartbroken sobs that shake my entire body.
“Oh my God!” Bella rushes to my side, and the saleswoman tactfully retreats to give us privacy. “What’s wrong? What’s happening?”
“I can’t do this,” I gasp between sobs. “I can’t marry him tomorrow.”
“What do you mean you can’t marry him? Freya, you love Ben. Anyone can see that.”
“That’s the problem,” I cry, and suddenly all the words I’ve been holding back for months come pouring out. “I do love him, Bella. I love him so much it’s destroying me. But this whole engagement, this whole wedding—it’s not real. It’s fake. It’s all fake.”
She stares at me like I’ve started speaking a foreign language. “What do you mean it’s fake?”
