“Coming, Mother.” I help Amelia to her feet, steadying her when she sways.
“You look beautiful,” Amelia whispers. “Like something from a fairy tale.”
The wrong fairy tale. One where happily ever after means paid medical bills.
Amelia straightens her shoulders, summoning strength she doesn’t have, to walk down the aisle before me.
For her, I’d make the same choice again. And again. And again.
For her, I’d marry a stranger. For her, I’d give up any chance at love.
For her, I’d smile through my own funeral.
Mother points at me. “The veil needs adjusting. And stand up straight. No one wants to see the bride slouching.”
I correct my posture, shoulders back, chin slightly lifted. “Sorry.”
“There’s some nonsense happening in the city. So the cake’s going to be late. And your father had to take a detour.” Mother checks her diamond watch. “Police barricades. But he’s here now, and we need to start. The Moras are not known for their patience.”
Especially Julien, I think, but don’t say.
“Come along, girls.” Mother holds the door wide, expectation radiating from her like heat.
Amelia squeezes my hand one last time. “Ready?”
I pull her into a careful hug. “I love you,” I whisper, and mean it more than anything I’ll say at that altar.
I’m going to make sure she’s okay. That she can be a bride one day and marry the love of her life. That she’s getting healthy and is able to continue the BC?—
“Girls!” Mother’s voice, sharper. “Places. Now.”
Amelia draws back, her eyes shining. “See you at the altar.”
She takes her place at the beginning of the procession, steadying herself with one hand against the wall.
The bridesmaids, distant cousins, and business associates’ daughters who barely know me, line up behind her, adjusting dresses and checking makeup in compact mirrors.
Father appears beside me, offering his arm without meeting my eyes. “Ready?”
There’s only one acceptable answer. “Yes.”
The music changes, and Amelia begins her slow walk down the aisle. The bridesmaids follow, one by one.
Then it’s my turn.
I take a deep breath and step forward on Father’s arm.
The church falls silent except for the swelling notes of the wedding march. Heads turn. Smiles form on faces I recognize but don’t really know. Business partners. Social connections. The carefully curated guest list of my mother for maximum exposure.
I focus on breathing. On putting one foot in front of the other. On not tripping over the borrowed dress.
And then I see them. Standing at the altar beside the reverend.
Cameron and Julien Mora.
Cameron, the groom, my soon-to-be husband, looks handsome in his tailored tuxedo, in that gentle, non-threatening way.
Sandy brown hair styled perfectly, green eyes catching the light as he watches me approach. He’s tall, lean, with a runner’s build and an open face that always seems ready to break into a genuine, heartfelt smile. But today, the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
