“I told you to behave,” I whisper to heras I lead her toward my room.
“You should’ve known better,” she whispers back. “Also, I’m still waiting for someone to confirm this isn’t a movie set. This is really your room?” as she steps into the guest suite like she’s walked into a movie set.
“Technically, it’s my room in Ash’s mansion. Minor difference,” I say, trying to sound breezy and not at all overwhelmed by the life I’m currently fake-living.
The room is still mine, though—fairy lights strung around the headboard, my fuzzy hedgehog pillow Bernard front and center on the bed, and romance novels stacked like sacred texts on the nightstand.
But tonight? It looks like a high-fashion tornado blew through it.
An entire row of designer wedding dresses hangs neatly on a rolling rack that Ash’s Celeste arranged earlier today. There’s blush satin, crisp ivory silk, lace, tulle, dramatic sleeves, sexy cutouts, enough sequins to blind someone under direct sunlight. I half expect each one to have its own entourage and spotlight.
“Oh. My. God,” Nina breathes, spinning toward me with wide eyes. “You didn’t tell me Vera freaking Wang was living in your bedroom.”
“I think there’s also Elie Saab and Oscar de la Renta,” I admit sheepishly, already sweating. “Apparently a dress from Target won’t cut it.”
Nina arches a brow. “There’s a difference between a nice wedding dress and runway masterpieces that cost more than my car.”
I shrug, helpless. “Fake husbands, am I right?”
We both burst out laughing—nervous, giddy laughter that bounces off the pristine walls. And then I feel it. Not just the weight of the dresses, but what they mean. This whole wild, glittering charade.
A wedding that’s not supposed to mean anything. A marriage that isn’t real.
So why does my stomach flip when I imagine walking down the aisle?
“Okay,” Nina says, already rolling up her sleeves. “Let’s try on some couture, shall we?”
I reach for the first dress hanging on the ornate gold rack, the satin catching the light like a promise. It looked beautiful on the model—elegant, timeless, with just a hint of sparkle. Maybe this is the one.
Nina whistles low. “That’s a lot of dress.”
“I know,” I breathe, a little dazed. “It’s like the gown version of a Disney princess.”
I step behind the folding screen to undress and shimmy into the gown, which has about forty hidden clasps, a corset lining that might’ve been designed by medieval armorers, and a skirt the size of a Smart car.
“Uh… Nina?” I call, arms flailing. “I’m going to need assistance before this becomes a cautionary tale.”
She rounds the screen, already laughing, and hoists the bodice while I try not to trip on the train.
“Okay, we got this,” she mutters, tugging one side and smoothing down the lace. “Hold still. I think I found the zipper.”
“Is it… going up?”
A beat. “Define ‘up.’”
“Oh no.”
She tugs again, then winces. “This thing was definitely made for a mannequin with no lungs.”
“Iknewthat second cupcake would come back to haunt me,” I mumble, trying to breathe as she shimmies the zipper higher. “Do I look bridal yet?”
Nina steps back, eyes narrowing as she surveys me. “See for yourself.”
I turn to the mirror, nerves and anticipation tangling in my stomach—then I see myself.
“This lookedwaybetter on the model,” I mutter, tugging at the lace sleeves that are somehow both too tight and sliding off my shoulders like they’re trying to make a break for it.
The skirt swishes like it’s meant to be elegant, but I feel like a toddler raiding her grandma’s attic. My boobs look weirdly flat, the waistline hits at the worst possible spot, and the color makes me look like I’ve been living in a basement.
