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My eyes are still glued to Cameron. “Everyone should be.”
Snapping out of whatever trance I’m in, I close the game chat, wondering if I’ve developed a slightly unhealthy obsession with stalking my future husband. My eyes are drawn back to him. Not a hair on his perfectly styled head is out of place. He’s so damn put together with that classic elegance of his.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I groan inwardly. I’m sure I’m not even on his mind, but he’s all I can think about.
Except today.
Today, I have to be on his mind. It’s our wedding day.
I was doing fine in my bubble, and the asshole had to drag me out. No, not him. My father. I am so mad at my father, and I showed him by not going downstairs to dinner for a week after he told me about my impending marriage. But then, he threatened to come inside my room, and I had never rushed down the stairs so fast in my life.
I stand up and look out my window. The staff decorated the pavilion with white flowers, and fairy lights hang throughout the garden. A long white runner covers the paved path, beginning at the back of the house. On each side are a few rows of chairs with intricate steel patterns on the back, decorated with white roses and cushions.
After a knock follows my mother, peeking inside. When I nod at her, she enters. Her hair is in an elegant updo, and she’s wearing a flowing gray silk dress.
Her brows furrow. “Violet, get ready.”
She takes a seat in the armchair while I shower. I towel dry myself and stare at my reflection in the mirror. It still feels surreal that I am about to marry Cameron McNamara.
Reality crashes down on me like a tidal wave, drowning me. I squeeze my eyes shut to anchor myself. If my parents want me to do this, I will. It’s the least I could do.
Inside the walk-in closet, the towel drops like my hopes.
I approach my wedding dress—a vintage ivory A-line lace dress with a high neck and long sleeves—with small but steady steps. I picked the dress from a high-end bridal fashion catalog with my mother. The dress arrived on such short notice that it must have required a lot of money and influence from my parents to make it possible.
“Do you need help?” my mother asks.
“I’ve got this.”
I get dressed and put on a wig that flows over my breasts in light waves—the strawberry-blond hair is similar to my natural hair color. Slipping into my silver sandals, I walk to my mother, sliding on my white gloves.
“Wow, you look stunning.”
I catch my reflection in the mirror; pale green eyes stare back at me, barely visible through the lacy mask.
“Can I have a few moments, please?”
She nods. “I’m very proud of you.”
With that, my mother leaves. On pure instinct, I lock the door. Outside, soft music is playing, and voices ring with celebration.
Run, hide, disappear.
My frayed nerves urge me to, yet I am rooted to the spot. It’s like I know exactly where he is because my eyes find Cameron among all the people gathered. He looks spectacular in a black tux and impeccable arctic-white dress shirt.
The chairs begin to fill.
“Violet,” my father says.
My mouth fills with cotton.
“It’s time.”
A breath whooshes out of me when he tries to enter my room.
“Open the door.”
I want to, but I can’t. Anxiety keeps me in place. Leaving my sanctuary means leaving a safe life behind, a life I worked hard to build. It might be confinement for others, but here I can be myself. Each time my father says my name, it’s with more agitation and rattling of the doorknob.
