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“If you’re calling to see if I’m all right, I am,” she continues in a biting tone. “Best I’ve ever felt. Great, in fact.”
“Wonderful.”
“Fan-fucking-tastic.”
“Good night, Whitney.”
She hangs up first.
I sit there, battling the urge to call her again and continue this fight. I want to push it to its limit so we can air our grievances once and for all. I guess I’ll have to save it for tomorrow.I sleep restlessly, tossing and turning most of the night. I wake up early and hit the gym, my frustration warning away anyone who happens into my path. A well-meaning trainer ventures in my direction. I shake my head and say, “Don’t.” He turns right back around, picking up his pace. I shower and push away thoughts of Whitney as the water streams down my chest and abs. With an angry twist, I cut it off and step out to greet my reflection. I’m quite the scowling beast this morning. I could convincingly play any villain in our theme park, and the thought only annoys me more.
With a quick email to Heather, I inform her that I’ll be skipping my shift as His Royal Highness during Whitney’s morning meet-and-greet. She’ll be fine without me for a few hours. I’d like some time in the office to get work done before the parade this afternoon.
I’m sure Whitney will appreciate that time away from me as well.
“You’re in quite a mood this morning,” Heather says as we work together. I delegate tasks, check emails, add events and tasks to my calendar, and so on, tearing through work to keep myself busy.
“Unless you have a comment related to work, I don’t really want to hear it.”
“Excuse me?”
I don’t think I’ve ever been so harsh with her. I immediately regret it.
“I’m sorry. Ignore me. I had a terrible night. Let’s continue.”
We work straight through lunch, right up until the last possible moment before I need to head to the parade warehouse and get changed into my costume. Heather walks with me so we can continue working. With her pregnancy, it’s harder for her to keep up with me, and I forget to slow my pace. By the end of today, I’ll probably owe her half a year of paid time off.
Two employees from the Costuming Department are waiting for me with my suit. I dismiss Heather and head into a dressing room. The costume is designed in a military fashion, similar to what British nobility would wear if they were getting married. I have black pants and a fitted red jacket with gold buttons stacked down the center. A royal blue sash cuts across my chest, accented by a yellow-gold collar and cuffs. There’s a family crest embroidered just below a medal that’s pinned over my heart. I feel slightly ridiculous wearing the damn thing.
“Is everything where it should be?” I ask when I step out, and the two employees nod, eyes wide, silent.
I walk out of the dressing room and head toward the back of the parade processional. Our float is last in line and the set designers have gone overboard decorating it in the theme of a royal wedding. It’s massive—at least two stories—complete with a mini version of Elena’s Castle near the back. Roses cover every square inch of the float, arching and swirling to create a backdrop for the raised platform on which we’ll stand. An engineer is stationed there now, going through a checklist to confirm everything is in working order. There’s no driver present during the procession. Each float is built with a mini computer on board pre-programmed with the parade route. Miles away, there’s a room full of engineers sitting at their desks prepared to troubleshoot any malfunctions.
I climb the ladder and nod to the engineer before I notice the volume level inside the warehouse start to trickle off. The ensuing silence pulls my attention back toward the dressing rooms just as Whitney steps through a door.
I stare, enraptured.
It’s all just pretend. I know her wedding dress is just a costume, but still, she’s more breathtaking than any bride I’ve ever seen. A stunning contrast of white lace and dark red hair.
It shouldn’t be such a shock to see her. She’s worn parts of her costume during rehearsal—the veil, the top, the skirt—though none of it all at once. Heather told me a team of seamstresses has been working on the dress night and day to complete it in time.
Their efforts weren’t in vain. Whitney wears it like a dream. The lace sleeves extend down to her wrists, the matching top narrows at her waist, and the skirt falls in soft pleats down to the floor. A V is cut into the high collar, revealing only a hint of cleavage.
Her hair is down, a few strands pinned beneath her lace veil. There’s a small diamond tiara on her head—exactly what a princess ought to wear on her wedding day.
