“I need to be able to breathe,” I wheeze, looking at her in the mirror.
“It’s overrated,” she replies, her eyes sparkling as she ties the ribbons into a bow at the base of my spine.
“You look beautiful,” Mom says, her voice wobbling.
“Don’t, or I’ll start.” I give her a watery smile, then turn to face my three bridesmaids sitting side by side on the hotel suite’s duck-egg-blue velvet chaise, all lined up in sage-green satin like a walking ad for David’s Bridal.
“Oh my God, Jude!” Lizzie exclaims. “You look like an angel.”
“Beautiful.” Jessica grins. “Callum’s a lucky guy.”
“That dress really suits you,” Kelly says, her gaze roaming over the ruffled tulle skirt in appreciation. “Everything about it is just…” She sighs. “… perfect.”
I turn and survey myself in the mirror. The dress, the veil, the expertly applied makeup, and styled hair in a smooth chignon. It’s incredible. Extravagant. Expensive, and just so…Bridal.
I don’t look like me.
Lizzie jumps up to refill our champagne flutes, and my mother goes to retrieve our glasses from the top of a French hand-painted cabinet.
“Spill, what’s wrong?” Mel whispers, pretending to smooth some crystals on the sweetheart neckline of my bodice.
“Nothing.” I gnaw on my lip, and she pops a brow.
Mel’s been my best friend since middle school.
Nothing escapes her.
“Do you think it’s all a little… glamor on steroids?” I wince.
She levels her eyes with mine. “No. You look beautiful. It’s your wedding day, it’s going to feel different. Doing your job, you don’t get to do the whole dressing up thing. Make the most of it. Because you fucking rock this look.”
I work in an office filled with middle-aged men with names like Walt and Chuck, developing patient administration systems. They’re a hardworking and brilliant-minded bunch. But our office hardly calls for designer gowns with beautiful embroidery and invitations mailed in personalized Habotai silk lined boxes. Most days, I work in slacks and a T-shirt. If I wear a skirt and heels, the guys look panicked, asking me if they missed a memo about the hospital’s CEO visiting.
“I don’t just mean the dress, I mean…all of it,” I whisper.
I’ll give it to Mel; her poker face is impressive. She even manages to prevent her gaze from wandering around the lavish hotel suite. I wanted to hire this cute place on a lake out of the city and just invite close friends and family. But my fiancé, Callum, told me the only place to get married is in the city at The Songbird hotel. And my father agreed with him.
This place is stunning. And the in-house wedding planner has been nothing short of amazing.
But I feel like I’m outside of my body, watching somebody else get married.
Someone perfectly groomed and coiffed.
Mel shrugs. “Honestly? Yeah. It’s as pompous as that medical dinner you went to with Callum last month. The one with the edible gold dusting on the desserts?” She rolls her eyes. “I don’t want to eat my gold. I want to wear it like a normal person, alongside some momentous bling that makes the Empire State Building resemble my pinkie.”
She lifts my left hand and grins at the giant Harry Winston pear-shaped diamond—a family heirloom that belonged to Callum’s great-grandmother, the wife of his surgeon great-grandfather.
Medical skill runs in Callum’s family.
“You’ll have an unforgettable day, I promise.”
My thumping heart eases a little at her reassurance.
An unforgettable day.
One where I become Mrs. Jude Huntington. Wife of one of the city’s most respected cardiac surgeons. A man whose reputation is almost as prestigious as his mentor’s, the city’s—no, the East Coast’s—top cardiac surgeon. Royston Yardley.
My father.
