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PEYTON
I’ve always wondered what went through a bride’s mind, as she walked down the aisle.
Did she dwell on the finality of it all? The quiet death of her single life, replaced by something permanent, structured, responsible?
Or did she cling to the good parts? The man waiting at the altar. The impending honeymoon. The bright future they were about to build together?
For me, it was about none of those things.
I was too busy thinking about my feet.
These ridiculous shoes were a crime against humanity — pinching, stabbing, slowly grinding away my will to live. And the dress? Even worse. Boning dug into my ribs every time I breathed, courtesy of a room full of people who thought it ‘looked amazing’ but didn’t have to wear it for twelve straight hours.
Chin up, back straight, I forced my eyes down the immaculately-decorated aisle and found my husband-to-be.Donovan looked incredible in his fitted Brioni suit — tall, composed, dashingly handsome. He let out a soft, shaky breath, and a tear slipped down his cheek.
I wondered if it was real.
Or just for the audience of four hundred.
To my right, my stepfather walked with me in perfect lockstep, his arm looped through mine. A good man. Kind. Steady.
Still a stranger.
He was a poor substitute for my father — nothing against him, just… fact. The thought hit harder than I expected, and suddenly my chest tightened; grief pushing forward to take its place alongside the physical discomfort.
My dad would’ve loved this. He would’ve laughed at the absurdity of it, and made some inappropriate joke under his breath. He would’ve told me to run, probably.
The ache in my chest deepened.
Am I really doing this?
My tired feet, still propelling me forward, informed me that I was. The music droned on, and the whispers grew louder as I made my way to the altar, passing rows of strangers and so-called ‘friends.’ That tended to happen when you married a billionaire CEO. You didn’t just marry the man — you married the network. You slipped into bed with his business partners, nearly as much as you did your new husband.
And if I was being honest… that part was on me.
I glanced sideways at my dear sweet mother, glowing in the front row. She’d orchestrated this; every step of it. The introduction. The carefully managed courtship. The way she’d guided things along, like she was closing a deal.
I hated her for it, at first.
At least, until Donovan started winning me over.
He’d been charming. Attentive. Almost aggressively sweet and thoughtful. And when you’re whisked off to yachts in the Cayman Islands one day, and shopping in Milan the next? Well, it’s easy to overlook a few things.
Like the fact that, more than anything…
Donovan Prescott loved Donovan Prescott.
No, seriously, am I doing it?
The long flow of gossamer toile trailing behind me tugged me backwards, like it had opinions of its own. Donovan’s mother had insisted upon it. Insisted on everything, really. The length. The drama. The entire spectacle.
She’d even called the tailor behind my back, to make it even longer.
Because of course she had.
I approached the altar, scanning the bridesmaids. I couldn’t count a single one of my friends among them. Three of Donovan’s estranged step-sisters. Two of my cousins, wide-eyed and barely containing their excitement — not for me, but for the reception. The alcohol. The beautiful Nantucket beaches, and the inevitable chaos that would follow.
