Page 47 of The Temporary Bride

Adrian moves efficiently, making slight adjustments, ensuring the gown drapes flawlessly. As he works, Genevieve reaches for my hands, giving them a squeeze.

“Tristan’s not going to be able to believe his eyes,” she says. “You’re stunning.”

“Thanks,” I manage to say, even though my throat feels constricted. “S-so do you.”

It’s true, she does. Genevieve’s bridesmaid dress is a vision of contemporary elegance. The dress is a floor-length gown with a fitted bodice and a flowing A-line skirt. The silk is a luxurious, deep shade of blue that accentuates her figure. She wears a pair of strappy heels to complete the look, and the overall effect is timeless and elegant.

She shakes her head impatiently, gesturing to the mirror behind me. “Oh, give me a break, Chloe. It’s your day. Look!”

When I turn to the mirror to take in my own reflection, my breath catches.

The wedding gown is a masterpiece, every detail crafted to perfection. The silk drapes flawlessly, highlighting all the best parts of my figure. The lace appliques delicately trace patterns along the bodice and spill onto the flowing A-line skirt. The gown’s train cascades gracefully behind me, adding a touch of drama to the ensemble.

I knew the dress was expensive. I knew it was gorgeous. Hell, it’s tailored to my body. I’ve already seen it at least a dozen times, so there shouldn’t be any surprises.

But I never could have imagined how the whole picture would look. The combination of the gown, the makeup, and my perfectly-styled hair hit me all at once.

I’m about to get married.

Adrian steps back, his eyes assessing the final result with professional satisfaction. “Everything looks to be in order.”

Genevieve’s arms wrap around me in a tight embrace, the layers of the bridal gown rustling softly. It’s a moment of sisterly affection, a fleeting respite in the whirlwind of emotions. As she pulls away, a knowing glint sparkles in her eyes, and a mischievous smile plays on her lips.

“Consider this your practice round, Chloe,” she whispers, her tone conspiratorial. “You know, a dress rehearsal for the real deal. A few years from now, you can have a real wedding with a man you actually love.”

I swallow, uncertain whether my sister’s comment is meant to offer comfort. Her flippant attitude is entirely at odds with the turmoil in my mind, the tightness in my chest.

My chest tightens with a flare of jealousy. It’s easy for Genevieve to find this amusing. It’s not her life being upended. She’s not the one about to walk down the aisle in a marriage that feels like a transaction. She’s not the one who’s been sentenced to spend three years living someone else’s life.

“I’ll see you out there,” Genevieve says brightly, releasing my hands. She leaves, and the stylist folds the garment bag over his arm and follows her. Now I’m alone with my mother.

My mother approaches me, a portrait of poised elegance, a spark of maternal pride in her eyes. She places a delicate hand on my shoulder, the touch feather-light but laden with unspoken expectations. “Chloe, my dear, you look absolutely stunning.”

I freeze under her touch, suddenly even more uncomfortable.

A wistful smile plays on her lips as she continues, “Marrying Tristan is a significant step. Today, just remember that this is about securing the family legacy. And I am so, so proud of you.”

I can’t help but feel a twinge of bitterness. She’s proud of me now, proud of this extravagant wedding, of walking down the aisle to marry a man I barely know. Where was that pride when I graduated business school? When I successfully closed a major deal? When I secured a crucial partnership for the company?

She’s never been proud of the things that truly matter to me.

With a distant smile, I close off my emotions, building a protective barrier around myself. It’s a familiar defense mechanism, one I’ve honed over the years.

Behind the facade of politeness, a part of me recoils, withdrawing into the recesses of my mind where I can shield myself from the sting of this subtle rejection. It’s a lonely place, but in this moment, it’s where I find solace, cocooned in my own thoughts and feelings.

My parents have never ventured beyond the surface, never bothered to peel back the layers and discover the intricacies of the person standing before them. Hell, maybe they never truly wanted to. The image they’ve crafted of their ideal daughter, molded by societal norms and family legacies, is nothing. And yet it’s all they’ve ever wanted.

My mother removes her hand from my shoulder and turns away. As the door clicks closed behind her, I take a deep breath, attempting to quell the emotions churning inside me.

The next moment is orchestrated by the meticulous hands of the wedding staff, guiding me toward the grand entrance. The ceremony itself will take place in the garden, flanked by carefully-sculpted topiaries.

The soft strains of the wedding march begin, echoing through the corridor as I step outside into the sun. The ivory silk of my gown sways gracefully with each measured stride, the intricate lace tracing a delicate pattern in the air. My heart thrums in tandem with the music.

Towering trees with sprawling branches form a canopy overhead, casting dappled shadows on the stone path. To either side of the aisle, the wedding planners have laid out perfect rows of white chairs.

Past the rows of guests, throughout the garden, carefully placed sculptures become focal points of beauty. Abstract and classical pieces coexist, capturing the essence of creativity and timelessness. Marble statues stand gracefully amidst lush flower beds, their pristine forms softened by the embrace of delicate blossoms.

Ahead of me, beneath a wicker arch woven with white roses, is Tristan. When my eyes land on him, for a moment, I could swear that my heart stops beating.