Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“Two hours in the spa were enough attending for me.” I’m not sure about Sarai, but I was rubbed and scrubbed and plucked quite aggressively. They even did my hair and my makeup, though I’m currently trying to tone down the vibrant-pink lipstick and blush.
“I love the color of my nails.” She holds out her hand admiringly.
“Let’s hope the gel is strong, because it’s going to take some oomph to fasten me into that dress.” I glance at the delicately beaded ivory gown hanging from the bathroom door. The top is corseted—which will probably make me look like I’m considering an OnlyFans account or just cut off my circulation—and the skirt is tightly fitted before fanning out in a gorgeous mermaid’s-tail effect. I can’t believe it was Evie’s second choice, because it’s an absolute showstopper.
I am going to feel very uncomfortable wearing it. As a wedding planner, I’m used to being in the background. As a person, that’s where I prefer to be. I hate being the focus of attention and have always dressed to blend, not to stand out. Even my own choice of wedding dress was quite plain.
“You’re gonna look so hot in it.”
Hot, yes. Like a sausage on a grill, threatening to burst from its skin. I can’t imagine I’ll be able to sit in it, as I doubt Valentino thought to reinforce the seams with steel.
“I hope you know the extension for the maintenance crew,” I say with a sigh. “I think it’s going to take someone with superior upper body strength to strap me into the corset.”
Sarai scoffs. “Bestie, it’ll be just like getting into a pair of skintight jeans you know you’re gonna look as hot as fuck in.”
“So you’re saying I’m going to end up with a muffin top?”
She laughs, though there’s no way she can understand. Maybe in a few years, when her metabolism slows and she’s working so many hours she can’t get to the gym. Then, at some point, she’ll realize she can’t afford the membership she doesn’t even use and cry over all that wasted money. Or maybe that’s just me.
I return to my reflection. I’ve fixed enough bridal tears over the years to be able to fix my makeup. Not that I have any intention of crying. I’m marrying for money, not for love.
Fake marrying, I mean.
I was never what you might consider a romantic. As a little girl, I hadn’t dreamed of being a wedding planner and didn’t own a toy box full of Barbie dolls dressed in white. Baba wasn’t demonstrative, and love was rarely spoken of. Rather, I fell into the industry after my first part-time job in a wedding shop at the age of fifteen.
Watching brides sparkle and sip champagne as I fetched and carried dresses with extortionate price tags—dresses they’d wear only for one day—opened my eyes to another kind of life. I eavesdropped and was blown away by the figures they expected to spend on their big days. Then I learned how they outsourced the whole thing.
No one I knew could pay for someone to clean their house, much less someone to design, then take responsibility for their wedding. These women made me hungry for another life. I was determined to make something of myself—to make success mine.
I would never have contemplated marrying a man for money, yet here I am.
And while my reasons for choosing the field were pragmatic, it turns out you can’t work in the industry without being bitten by the love bug. I adore being behind people’s delight, and I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve cried listening to my couples exchange their dreams and their vows. You’d need a heart of stone not to be affected. Not to yearn for the experience yourself.
I thought I had found love, and while my day wasn’t to be Valentino and vintage champagne, I was no less seduced by the prospect of the experience. I was looking forward to a wedding of my own, of a future. A promise and a lifetime of love, support, and acceptance. Maybe even a family in the years to come. But it all came to nothing in the end.
“Did Fin seem cool to be marrying you?”
“Pretend marrying.” The reminder is important. Even for myself.
“I bet he was amped,” she adds.
I pause, eye shadow brush suspended midair. “He seemed okay about it, I suppose. He pretended to be annoyed with Mr. Deubel—Oliver, I mean. They slung insults for a bit, but they seem to have a really solid friendship.”
“Yeah, but how did he look at you?”
“With his eyes?”
Sarai rolls hers.
Well, he didn’t run for the hills. Maybe he was pleased to see me again? Surprised but not horrified? I consider that moment, playing it back in my mind, remembering how his gaze lifted and how he slowly took me in, from top to bottom. And how I felt that look every place in between.