CHAPTER ONE
Faith
December 24th
If there’sa checklist for the perfect Christmas wedding, mine has every box ticked.
Designer gown? Check.
Winter roses? Check.
A charming, successful fiancé my father absolutely adores? Double check.
A bride who’s about to hyperventilate into her veil? Big, blinking, neon check.
I grip the edge of the vanity, hoping it might anchor me to the earth. The mirror in front of me is all sparkle and silk, white fabric glinting under a chandelier so bright it could probably be seen from space. My reflection looks calm and glowing, and very December issue of Southern Bride.
But the truth? I’m one bead of sweat away from a full-blown meltdown.
There’s too much perfume, too much tulle, too many people fussing around me, too muchperfection. The room smells ofroses and nerves. Bridesmaids’ laughter filters in from the hallway, followed by the wedding planner barking something.
Somewhere, faintly, I imagine I hear my mother’s laugh. And it hits me again, sharp and unkind, that she and Charlotte aren’t here.
Not because they didn’t want to support me. Because they didn’t want to come to a wedding that might as well have been a corporate gala, for me to marry a man they barely know, thrown by the black cloud in all of our lives: my father.
Because after only a year of dating Evan and all of a sudden getting hitched, Mom said she felt she would be “attending a shareholder meeting, not watching her daughter get married.” And I really don’t think she can stand to be around my dad for more than five minutes.
And Charlotte… Charlotte just hugged me tight before I left for the city last month and whispered, “If you need me, really need me, call.”
Their absence hollows something out in me. I’m gutted, but I also get it. No one says no to William Ross. Not when he’s in full command mode.
It used to impress me. It’s why I followed him to the city after the divorce, as soon as I left high school. Lately, it just feels like being steered.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself, taking one of those deep yoga breaths I saw on YouTube once. “You’ve got this, Faith. You are fine. You are marrying a man who checks all the boxes.”
Except maybe the one labeled “You actually love him.”
I fan myself with the nearest thing, a card that says “To my beautiful bride” in Evan’s perfect handwriting, and immediately regret reading the note inside.I can’t wait to begin our life together.
My chest tightens.Neither can I,I lie silently, even as the edges of my vision go a little blurry.
I shoo everyone away with the excuse that I need a “moment to center myself,” which is a polite way of saying I need to stop hyperventilating before I faint and ruin everyone’s Instagram stories.
The second the door clicks shut, I sag onto the little velvet bench like a puppet whose strings just snapped. I stare at myself in the mirror again. My curls are perfect. My makeup is perfect. I’m perfect.
And I’ve never felt more wrong in my life.
Evan Carter is exactly the kind of man my dad always dreamed I’d marry. Polished, responsible, talks about mergers like they’re romantic getaways. He’s not cruel, he’s not unkind. He’s just not mine. Around him, I feel like a very pretty business proposal that came with a side of seasonal décor.
I fiddle with the small silver locket at my throat, the one my grandmother gave me when I was little. The metal is cool against my skin, and the hinges squeak softly as I open it. Her picture smiles back, her eyes kind.
She used to say, “Don’t let anyone talk you out of your own heart, sugar.”
“Well, Gran,” I whisper, “my heart is currently trying to crawl out of my rib cage and make a run for it.”
Which, honestly, doesn’t sound like the worst idea.
I push to my feet and cross the room. My knees are shaking, but everything in me feels wildly clear suddenly. I don’t want to walk down that aisle. I don’t want to pretend that this glittering life is mine. I want… a life that doesn’t come with a seating chart and a stock portfolio.
