If engagement parties were exhausting, wedding preparations were soul-draining.
It was only the beginning, and I was already being swallowed by lace swatches, catering tastings, and floral mockups. Planners buzzed around me like drones, armed with clipboards and overenthusiastic smiles, asking questions I didn't care to answer and presenting options I didn't ask for.
"Classic white, or would you prefer a modern blush palette for the ceremony?"
"I don't care," I answered for the third time that hour, rubbing my temples.
Sarah, seated to my right in the long planning room at Aldridge Estate, leaned over and whispered, "If you don't pick soon, they're going to think you want a medieval-themed wedding."
I groaned. "Let them."
Evelyn Aldridge, poised at the head of the table in an elegant mauve suit, smiled softly. She had a notebook open and color tabs lining the edge. "Celine, dear, I know this isn't exactly your dream, but if there's anything specific you'd want to incorporate…"
"I want it over with," I said before I could filter it.
Silence.
Her expression didn't change, but the room shifted slightly—like someone let all the air out.
Blake wasn't here. Of course he wasn't. He had meetings. Important deals. Negotiations that demanded his attention far more than a cake flavor or seating chart. The irony was, I would have preferred his brooding silence over the buzz of strangers making decisions on our behalf.
I forced a breath. "Apologies. I've just had a long week."
Evelyn nodded gently, then turned the conversation back to the planners. I tuned out again. The gold-trimmed binders in front of me blurred into a sea of meaningless options.
By the time we finished, the afternoon sun had dipped low across the estate gardens. I wandered outside alone, my heels clicking against the stone path. My head ached, my patience was shot, and somewhere in the distance, a string quartet rehearsed wedding songs like this was already a fairytale.
It wasn't.
I found myself beneath an arbor of white roses, a place that looked like it belonged in a movie. Picture perfect. Too perfect. A stage.
I sat on the edge of the marble fountain and stared at my reflection in the water. My face looked calm. Almost serene. But I knew better.
There was nothing serene about being caught in a spectacle you never wanted.
"You look like you're contemplating running," Sarah's voice called as she approached.
I gave a bitter laugh. "Don't tempt me."
She sat beside me. "You know, you can still make this wedding yours. It doesn't have to be theirs."
"But it is," I said quietly. "Every part of it. From the venue to the designer dress fittings to the guest list packed with business interests. It's their stage. I'm just wearing the costume."
Sarah sighed. "You can still choose how you show up. Whether you show up as the girl they expect, or the woman who takes control even when the script is written for her."
I didn't answer. I couldn't. Because the truth was—I didn't know who I was in this script anymore.
I wasn't a bride.
I wasn't in love.
I wasn't even sure if I was fighting anymore—or just floating.
Later that evening, I returned to my apartment to find a box waiting on the console table. My name written in Blake's sharp handwriting.
Inside, a stack of sample photos and invitation proofs. On top, a note.
Celine,
You'll probably hate all of these. Pick whichever one you hate the least. I told them not to include doves. - B
I snorted.
Then, against all odds, I smiled.
Just a flicker.
Then it was gone.
Because even that moment—small, unexpected—didn't change anything.
I was marrying Blake Aldridge in four weeks.
And I would do it with my eyes open.
But I wouldn't do it with my heart.
I took the box and carried it to the living room. I laid out each invitation sample on the glass coffee table, staring at fonts and gold embossing and cursive flourishes I didn't care about. They were all beautiful, tasteful, exactly what was expected.
And completely devoid of meaning.
Eventually, I selected one.
Minimalist. Matte cream with silver accents. Cold. Elegant.
Just like us.
I sent a message to the planner and copied Blake on it. No greeting, no explanation. Just the file name and my approval.
Then I turned off my phone.
I curled onto the couch, wrapped in the silence of the apartment, and let the darkness close in.
It would be a beautiful wedding.
And a hollow one.
But I'd be ready.
Because when the music played, and the flowers were in place, and the photographers snapped their perfect pictures—I would play my role.
And I would play it flawlessly.
But I would not lose myself in the script.
Not now. Not ever.