My aunt’s mouth tightens.“Darling, they’re ready for you in five,” she says gently.“You don’t want to keep everyone waiting.”
I blink once, feeling the heat crawl up my spine.“I need a minute.”
She hesitates.“But—”
“I.Need.A.Fucking.Minute.”
The room falls silent.
Fourteen women freeze in place—blush satin, mascara, and uncertainty.I watch them exchange glances, unsure of who should speak or cry next.No one does.
My Aunt finally steps back, muttering something about nerves and pressure and how every bride feels this way.As if this is normal.As if being pushed into a life you didn’t choose is just a phase.
I turn toward the door.“Out.”
My aunt hesitates, taking a step forward.“Isabella—”
“I’m not going to faint,” I say without looking at her.“I just need to breathe without someone powdering my collarbone.”
That’s it.She relaxes for a moment, offers me a gentle smile, and nods.
One by one, they shuffle out.Heels click.Dresses whisper.Perfume, hairspray, and nervous chatter trail behind them.
As soon as the last heel clicks down the hall, I turn the lock on the door.
I walk back across the room, and the dress drags across the floor with all the grace of a damn snowplough.Layers of satin and tulle whisper and hiss.
I stop in front of the mirror.
What stares back at me makes me want to laugh.Not because it’s funny, but because it’s fucking tragic.
I reach up, fingers finding the pins jammed into my scalp.I rip them out one by one.My curls fall heavily over my shoulders.The veil slips off and drops to the ground, forgotten.
I swiftly pull off the white dress.The sleeves tear as I yank them down.Good.Let them rip.Let someone cry over the damage when they find the Serrano bride discarded her handcrafted, overpriced bridal fantasy on the floor like trash.It is trash.And I’m finished pretending it ever meant anything else.
I turn and cross to the armoire in the corner where my real dress is waiting.Hidden in a black garment bag, I smuggled it in behind my aunt’s back with all the grace of a woman preparing for war.I unzip it slowly.
It’s black.Sleek.Made from fabric that whispers sin and warns don’t fuck with me.I bought it online, straight from the funeral section, because nothing says “I do” like mourning the girl I used to be.Grief, it turns out, has better taste than the lace-and-pearl bullshit tradition keeps trying to force on us.
I step into the dress.Slide it up slowly.It clings in all the right places—my hips, my waist, the curve of my spine—tight enough to make a priest stutter, sharp enough to make a grown man flinch.The neckline is clean.No glitter.No frills.No stitched promises of purity.
Just fuck-you black.Unapologetic and divine.
The zipper hums up my back, smooth as sin.My spine straightens.My shoulders are square.I turn to the mirror and stare her down.
And there she is.
Not some blushing bride waiting to be walked down the aisle like it’s a fairytale.
This is the girl who’ll burn the fucking chapel down if anyone even so much as breathes the wrong way.
Now that’s a damn bride worth remembering.
Not the kind to blink prettily beneath a veil and nod along while her life is plotted out by power-hungry men in tailored suits.
She will not be controlled.
Not by her father.
