Before I could protest, she tugged me down by the arm, dragging me onto the thick Persian rug where bridal magazines had been scattered in glossy heaps. I stumbled gracelessly.
"Perfect," Nita whispered beside me.
"I don't think this is my strong suit," I muttered, already reaching for an escape hatch. "Just throw me in anything. I approve."
"Oh, don't be silly," Mrs. Williams replied, waving off my plea. "It's your wedding. You get to make your own choices."
Is it really? The thought stuck to the back of my throat. Because from where I was sitting—wedged between two queens of society armed with Pinterest-level determination—I didn't feel like I had choices at all.
"Look," my mother interrupted, flipping a page. "This one will be perfect for you. See how the background accents the blue suit? It will bring out the strength in your jawline. Yes, that's the one."
I bit back a curse. Then why the fuck do they need me if they already have their own ideas?
