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Not only do I look like a meringue, but the flock of helpers buzzing around me like flies are making me claustrophobic. It’s like I have an entire army of people here who have sprung into existence for the sole purpose of making me look like the most ridiculous bride to ever exist.
A girl stabs a pin into my waist, and I cry out in pain, jerking away and almost knocking over at least four other attendants like bowling pins. “Sorry,” she mumbles.
“Is this really necessary?” I ask, letting another woman lift my arms to measure something else. They might as well X-ray me at this point.
“Yes,” says Katie, the head wedding planner, her platinum-blond bouffant hairdo giving her the look of a woman who thinks she’s glamorous but in reality, all it is is a lot of hairspray. “Don’t you want to look perfect on your big day?”
I don’t reply.
All I can think is how I should have made Aiden sign that stupid paper to make him promise not to do this to me. Though, as much as I want to be mad at him, it’s not really his fault. I honestly don’t think he would have made us go through with this charade if he didn’t have to. His face at the cake-tasting was proof that he was just as sick of all this as I was.
The second we got back to Olympus City, Aiden put the plans for the wedding into motion, but when his mother found out, she basically forbade the match unless we “did it properly.” Not that she could have stopped us, really, but Aiden didn’t want to make things more difficult than they had to be. And now I’ve met the woman, I understand.
That meeting was one of the worst dinners I’ve ever had.
I want to say no, fuck this, to it all, but now Aiden’s mom is paying for everything, I have a constant guilty nausea for hating it. It doesn’t matter that a few millions are nothing to them; it’s still generous of her to pay, and it’s still awful that I want to run away.
On top of that, Aiden’s board of directors jumped on the idea of a big media wedding, plotting ways to spin our “fairy tale” into good press. We had to physically evict some photojournalists from our offices at Mettie’s. One of them made Kelly cry by trying to get an interview that veered into questions about her family and her career and how she felt being my subordinate. Which is not what she is or ever has been.
And worst of all, I’ve barely seen Aiden in two weeks. Ever since we got back from Desert Cove, he’s been submerged in business contracts and wedding plans and we’ve had no time to talk, so I’ve been sitting here, swinging like a pendulum between wanting to tear him to shreds with my bare hands and wanting him to hold me so tight that we become one. And the few times he has tried to reach out to me, I’ve avoided it because I haven’t known what to say. I hate him and want him all at the same time, and it’s keeping me up at night feeling sick.
The last thing I wanted from this was to get trapped. Now it looks like there’s no escape.
“Now,” says Katie. I imagine she would have been perfect as a horrible kindergarten teacher in another life. She’s got the patronizing sneer down to a tee. “How do we feel about veils?”
“No thanks,” I mutter, knowing full well I’m not going to get a choice in the matter.
“Wrong answer!” she says in the exact same tone I imagine she would have used if Ihadbeen excited about veils. Her fake sweetness is nauseating. “Now, I have some options here for you.”
She claps her hands and crooks her finger for some more of her lackeys to bring forth reams of silk and lace. Most of the veils are long, puffy things that look like they’d hang all the way down to my ankles. The only advantage would be that they’d cover my face and most of this hideous dress.
I look like one of those bridezillas, with great layers of fabric cascading down from the strapless bodice that barely looks like it can contain the weight of the skirts anchoring me to the spot. Katie claims it’s gorgeous, but it’s pinching my waist in all the wrong ways and she keeps making awful snide comments about my weight. I’m not dieting for a wedding that I don’t want to attend in a dress I don’t want to wear.
“How about this one?” she asks, snatching a veil from one of the women. “It’s made from the highest-quality silk, and the diamonds in the tiara are a hundred percent genuine and cut by the very finest jewelers.”
“It’s a little… uh…”
“Perfect?” she flashes her shark teeth at me, and I can’t summon the energy to argue with her. I nod without saying a word, grimacing. The word I probably would have picked would beostentatious.
I wince as I’m maneuvered back to the pedestal where attendants start poking and prodding me and pulling at my hair. It’s like they’re stabbing pins directly into my brain, and every time I flinch I get chided and glared at.
Finally, when I’m allowed to look into the mirror, I have to clench my fists to not physically recoil. When I used to imagine getting married as a kid, on the rare occasion it would cross my mind, I would think about wearing a long, stylish dress with a flowing veil to match. I always wanted to look like a heroine from one of those old novels where they run away from their troubles. I wanted to look like a centerpiece, but not a cake topper.
But this… this could not bemorecake topper. This stinks of the kind of wedding rich people have to show off about how much money they have. I thought I would have a small wedding with the people I love. Instead, I’m going to be paraded around as Aiden Fletcher’s new wife in front of wannabes and journalists and people with more money than sense who thrive off the gossip mill.
I keep telling myself that it’s all for Mettie’s. It’s all a business arrangement. We all have to do things we don’t like in order to succeed.
Except Idolike Aiden — and that’s most of the problem. I was telling him the truth at the oasis; I do want a relationship with him.
I just don’t want it likethis.
“Smile!” Katie pushes a camera into my face, and I flinch, wobbling on the heels I have to wear so I can be tall enough for all the skirt. For the first time all day, I’m glad of the attendants because one of them grabs my hip firmly, stopping me from falling. “You’re looking great, honey.”
“Really?” I say dryly, letting my face fall back into a deep frown.
Katie pouts hard, brushing her thumb over my cheek. “You’re worried, hon?”
My anxiety is almost definitely not the kind she thinks it is. “I guess?”
