JAMIE
It’s the day before the full moon, barely three weeks since Morgan’s birthday, and today I’m getting married.
The venue turns out to be Morgan’s mansion—the one with the slide into the pool. It’s Victorian, extravagant in every detail, and I feel like I’ve stepped into a fairy tale.
All I’ve had to do so far today is follow directions. Every single minute is planned, which is good for my nerves, since it doesn’t leave me any time to overthink. Breakfast, hair, makeup, getting dressed—there’s not a second to spare.
My suit is white, embroidered tone-on-tone with delicate florals and bead flowers, as ornate as any dress. A white tulle cape with a diamond-encrusted hem drapes over my shoulders, dragging behind me like a train, and there are white roses woven into my half-up hair.
It’s perfect. It feels like…me.
With just a few minutes until the ceremony, Eileen comes and fusses with my veil, shifting it slightly before putting it back where it was.
“You’re so gorgeous!”
A blush rises to my cheeks. “Thanks, this is… it’s really a work of art.”
Eileen gives a proud nod. “And Morgan hasn’t seen it! Not even the concept sketches. She’ll be totally stunned. Getting her to pay for something sight unseen was no easy feat, of course. But she knows I know fashion. And… I may have threatened to quit if she peeked.”
Eileen’s fussing and rambling fill the last few minutes that I otherwise would have spent staring at the clock and freaking out.
So, it’s not until I’m standing just inside the house, looking out at the yard dripping with white roses like late summer snow, chairs arranged and leading up to a delicate white arch, Mom at my elbow, that it hits me.
“You look beautiful, honey,” Mom says, tearing up.
“Mom, if you cry,I’mgoing to cry…”
“I know, I know!” she fans herself. “Okay. It’s okay. I’ve got this.”
The string quartet—same as from her birthday party—starts playing the pop song that’s become ours. Longing and relief weave in the melody, a reminder of that lonely darkness I carried for so long and never have to face again.
That’s my cue.
I take a deep breath, and Mom and I step outside.
Even though it’s a small group, having so many eyes pointed towards me would normally give me an anxiety attack.
But I only see Morgan standing by the altar.
She wears a black tuxedo that fits her perfectly, with a low plunge in the front that shows off her chest. Her hair gathers in a chignon at the base of her neck, a few strands framing her face.
As she takes me in, her eyes soften with tenderness, tears welling.
My breath shakes. Oh no, if Morgan cries, I’mreallygoing to lose it.
Her psychiatrist friend, Gia, is officiating. She looks sharp and professional in crisp taupe pleats with her stark black hair and natural blonde money piece up in a slick high ponytail. Now that I’ve met her, I like her a lot, even if two female alphas in the same conversation is totally overwhelming. Gia’s golden eyes reveal subtle warmth as she leans forward and gives Morgan’s shoulder a squeeze.
Mom walks me down the aisle, and I’m floating. It’s all so surreal—until Morgan takes my hands at the altar, and her touch grounds me.
This is real. This is really happening.
Tears roll down her cheeks, and she doesn’t try to stop them. I reach up to brush them away.
“Look what you do to me,” she teases softly. “I swore I wasn’t going to cry.”
I laugh and stifle a sob. “Imade no such promises.”
“You’re perfect,” she whispers. “Absolutely perfect.”
