Maybe I’ll inhale too many fumes and go out quickly.
Why is that morbid thought so relieving?
My mother’s voice floats in from the hallway, brisk and controlledas always. “Where is Belladonna? She’s supposed to be helping her sister get ready. It’s almost time.”
At the mention of Belladonna’s name, I grit my teeth so hard, I’m sure I crack a molar. I haven’t seen my sister, and I actually don’t care to. She and I have never been close, and the fact that my mom thinks that she might actually show up and help me is comical.
Belladonna hasn’t helped anyone but herself her entire life. Why start now?
Of course, she’s late. Again. She’s made it clear in the past few months that she wants nothing to do with my wedding day. As much as I want to deny that it doesn’t sting, it’d be a lie. There’s a tiny part of me who remembers when she was born. I had all these visions of what having a built-in-best friend would be like.
Turns out, we couldn’t be more opposite, and those idealistic views I had quickly vanished as she got older.
One of the makeup artists says something, but I realize she isn’t even talking to me. This whole wedding is for me, yet I feel like I’m invisible. It’s happening all around me and I’m being sucked into a black hole of flowers and tulle and eager wedding guests against my will.
And what does Tyler think?
The very thought of my husband-to-be has my stomach clenching again. Another red flag? Or maybe it’s just starvation from the stupid diet.
My mother once again mentions my sister as if the entire event relies on her presence. Still absent. Shocker. I’m certainly not holding my breath.
Belladonna is just a year younger than me, and my only sibling, but we couldn’t be any more different. I’m a career-driven woman, and she’s a socialite. Even at twenty-eight, she still hasn’t grown up, loves to party, and stirs up drama wherever she goes. The tabloids love to see her coming. Not my cup of tea.
I’m more comfortable in boardrooms than shopping. I can’t remember the last time I let myself relax and do something for fun. I’ve been so focused on building up our family’s company and taking over before I’m thirty. That was the plan. My grandmother’s will stated that I will take over the family empire at thirty as long as I’m married. I’m following the plan to save the company. Married beforeturning thirty in three months. Hence, my wedding day. Likely, had I not had this crazy will guiding my life, I may not have chosen to get married so soon. We could have had a longer engagement, and I would have felt better about things. Might not have felt like running away on my wedding day.
One of the makeup artists bumps into my chair, laughs shrilly, and then manhandles me around until I’m facing the mirror. It was much easier to avoid the inevitable when I didn’t literally have to face it.
I suck in a sharp breath through my nose and then wince when I’m restricted from filling my lungs with precious air.
Who is this magazine-cover beautiful bride? I certainly don’t recognize the woman staring back at me. Her eyes are hollow and her frown seems permanent. She blinks her heavily painted lashes, and still, there’s no recognition. The sharp collarbones don’t belong to my bread-loving soul.
Am I disassociating from myself or is this the new me?
Hysteria claws its way up my throat. I’m practically sewn into the loveliest dress I’ve ever set eyes on, and I want nothing more than to pluck at the seams, freeing myself from its prison-like hold.
Is this what marriage to Tyler will feel like?
Captivity. Loss of freedom. Despair.
And why don’t I feel guilty for these rampant, horrible thoughts?
I absently pluck at the custom imported lace, the urge to ruin it overwhelming. I’m wrapped in thousands of dollars of luxury fabric molded to fit a version of me that exists only in other people’s heads.
My heart is racing so fast at this point, I’m starting to feel dizzy. More sweat beads on my body and I wonder if my mother will come at me with more spray deodorant to pollute the air with.
“There she is,” someone says, pleasure in their voice. I’m pretty sure the voice belongs to my mother.
Belladonna sweeps into the room as if it’s her day, not mine. Her cheeks are flushed, and her dark hair is perfectly blown out. Her lips are swollen and lipstick-free as if she’s put them to use before stepping in here. If I were to guess, she was probably making out with one of the groomsmen. Scotty? He’s single and has always had a thing for her.
I’m eager to look at anything other than my unfamiliar appearancein the mirror, which means watching Belladonna as she commands the room with her intense presence.
She’s wearing a pale green bridesmaid dress that our mother chose. It’s flattering and hugs her curves in all the right places. It’s not the dress I liked or even the colors I’d wanted, but admittedly, it looks good on her. This wedding, for all intents and purposes, though, is really for my mother. I am just another prop.
“Sorry,” Belladonna says, not sounding remorseful at all. “Traffic was insane.”
I tear my gaze from my sister to glance at the clock. That excuse is laughable. She has a driver, and there likely was no traffic.
When our eyes meet, she freezes. It’s such an odd reaction, I find myself fixated on it. There’s usually such arrogance rippling from my sister.
