I can't shake the nervousness away. It feels like getting married for the first time all over again, like walking down the aisle is walking straight toward a cliff.
Like it's a freaking death sentence.
I look ahead, my hands trembling slightly around the bouquet.
The garden has transformed into a beautiful wedding venue. I assume it was easy to decorate because the whole residence is always impeccably maintained.
Dahlia stands as my maid of honor. Someone is positioned close to the groom—his best man, I assume. I've never met him in person, but he's a public figure so I've seen him on TV and all over the internet.
Azrael Lewinsky, the Crown Palace's press secretary. Someone from a powerful media family who somehow chose to work for the president. Aside from the lawyer and the priest, Mr. Brandt didn't bring anyone else. So Mr. Lewinsky must be more than just a press secretary.
The residence's staff fill the guest seats, making the wedding look less forlorn.
