There it was. The moment I'd been mentally preparing for since the words I'm being forced into a marriage of convenience had left his mouth.
I stared at the wall across from my bed, my heart thudding loudly in my chest. "I figured this would happen eventually," I said carefully.
"I hoped it wouldn't be so soon," he admitted. "But my mother is annoyingly persistent."
That earned a small smile from me. "When were they thinking?"
"In two hours," he said. "I tried to get out of it since it was so last-second, but as I said, she insisted, and I haven't gotten them to sign over their shares yet."
I swung my legs out of bed, suddenly very awake. "Okay," I said, taking a steadying breath. "I can be ready in two hours."
There was a pause on the other end of the line, like he hadn't expected my answer to come so easily. He had every right to be surprised because I was currently freaking out. How was I supposed to shower, do my makeup, and pick an outfit in just two hours?
"You're sure?" he asked.
"I'm sure," knowing full well that I wasn't.
"Good," he said, relief evident in his voice. "I'll pick you up at noon."
We hung up shortly after, and the moment the call ended, reality crashed into me in full force. I was meeting his parents. Not as his friend, girlfriend, or fiancée, but as his wife.
The thought sent a nervous thrill through me, followed quickly by panic. I moved fast after that, as if slowing down would give my anxiety time to catch up. I headed straight for the bathroom, turned the shower on hotter than usual, and stepped beneath the spray.
The water helped. It always did.
I let it run over me, grounding myself in the warmth and focusing on the physical sensations rather than the mental ones. Luckily, I had removed and washed my wig then reapplied it yesterday morning, so I didn't have to think about my hair now.
I kept my makeup light with clear mascara to define my lashes, a neutral shadow, and a hint of blush with minimal foundation. I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard. Then I turned toward my closet and froze.
I stood there longer than I’d like to admit, arms crossed, staring at rows of clothes that suddenly all felt wrong. Too casual. Too formal. Too much like me. Not enough like the version of me I was supposed to be today.
I stared at the pile forming on my bed and finally grabbed my phone. If anyone could fix this, it was Sabrina. She answered almost immediately. “Did you finally ruin another outfit with coffee?”
“I do not ruin outfits,” I said. “But I do need your help.”
“With?”
“Picking something to wear.”
There was a pause. “Oh? For what?”
I hesitated for just a second. “I’m going out.”
“With who?”
“The guy I went on a date with earlier.”
She hummed suspiciously. “And?”
“His parents might be there,” I added quickly. “So I want to make a good first impression.”
Silence.
Then— “His parents?”
“It’s not a big deal,” I rushed out. “They might just be around.”
“You don’t meet parents unless it’s a big deal.”
