The Wedding Disaster and She Gave Me Freedom

The day the wedding invitations for Preston Calloway and me were printed, his childhood sweetheart, Felicity Vance, snuck into the printing press. She replaced the bride’s name, “Seraphina Hayes“, with her own, “Felicity Vance“. And my name was moved over to the maid of honor column. All of this was recounted to Preston a week before the wedding by his best friend, Trevor Duncan, who told it like some big, conspiratorial joke. With a cigarette dangling from his lips, Trevor chuckled suggestively, “Preston, with Felicity pulling a stunt like this, you don’t think people at the wedding are actually gonna think she’s the bride, do you? That’d be a hell of a scene.” I had just walked up to Preston’s office door right then, holding the green detox smoothie I’d brought for him, and when I heard that, my feet froze in place. The door was slightly ajar, and from inside came Preston’s usual low chuckle, tinged with a sort of lazy indulgence. Then, I heard him speak in a tone I’d never heard before, something almost like doting, “Trevor, don’t stir the pot. Felicity’s just got a childish streak, she’s only messing around.” My heart sank just a little. Trevor clearly wasn’t going to let the topic go, “Messing around? This is your wedding we’re talking about, man! Seriously, what’s the deal with you and her? If you two hadn’t…” “There is no ‘if.” Preston cut him off, his tone still light, even a little playful. “But, Trevor, I don’t mind telling you the truth.” He paused, his voice dropping a few notches, but it was like a dull, ice–coated blade slowly slicing through my eardrums, straight into my heart. “If my parents hadn’t been pushing so damn hard, insisting I find someone from the right background, the person I would’ve married would have been Felicity. She’s been putting up with my crap for years, she’s been wronged. This time… I’ll just consider it me owing her one. It’s fine to let her cause a scene, because anyway…” He let out a soft scoff, filled with a chilling carelessness that suggested he had everything under control. “When the wedding day comes, the bride standing next to me is going to be Seraphina, one way or another. She can’t run. Does it really matter whose name is on the invitation?” Does it really matter whose name is on the invitation? That short sentence was like a sudden blizzard that froze me solid right where I stood. It felt like the blood in every vein of my body stopped flowing in that instant, turning to ice. So, while I was carefully planning our future, filled with joy at the thought of becoming his bride, in his eyes, it didn’t matter who the bride was for this wedding at all. The only thing that mattered was the position of “Preston’s Bride“, which needed to be filled by a socially acceptable puppet named “Seraphina“. And Felicity, she was the first love enthroned in his heart, the one who could do whatever she pleased, the one he endlessly indulged because he “owed her“. Trevor burst out laughing with knowing comprehension, slapping Preston on the shoulder. “Damn, Preston, you really know how to play the game! I mean, having your cake and eating it too isn’t a bad deal. You’ve got Felicity, who’s head over heels for you, and then there’s Seraphina, who’s completely infatuated. You might as well just…” I couldn’t clearly hear the disgusting, vulgar words that followed. Holding that still warm smoothie, I stood in the cold hallway, feeling as though my heart was being sliced by that sentence, piece by piece, carved until it was a bloody, mangled mess. I’d known Preston for three years, and we’d been dating for two, I always knew there was a blurry shadow in his heart. It was the girl next door he’d grown up with, Felicity. She always called him “Preston, Preston“, in a voice so sweet it was sickening. She would call him out of the blue while Preston and I were on a date to say she was sick, get him to ditch me to go fix her plumbing, and post vague, nostalgic i********: stories about the past on our anniversaries. Every time I expressed the slightest complaint, Preston would just stroke my hair, look at me with that ridiculously handsome face of his, and say with a hint of resignation, “Sera, Felicity’s like a little sister to me. She was spoiled rotten growing up, she doesn’t mean any harm. Just cut her some slack.” I thought it was just a brother–sister thing. I thought I was the one who could make him put aside all his games and seriously say, “Marry me.” I thought that all my years of companionship and love had long since replaced that blurry shadow. Until this very moment, when I heard him with my own ears, in that flippant and entitled tone, completely negate my entire significance as “the bride“. It turns out, it wasn’t me cutting her some slack. It was me, stealing the spot that should have been hers all along. The warmth in my palm gradually turned scorching hot, and then, bit by bit, it grew cold. I looked down at the swirling brown liquid in the cup, which reflected my ridiculously pale face. I didn’t push the door open and go in. I didn’t, like I usually would, walk in with a perfectly gentle smile, place the drink in front of him, and remind him to smoke less and take care of himself. I just silently turned around, holding that now meaningless drink, and walked away from his office door, step by step. My heels clicked on the polished marble floor, creating a hollow echo, every step felt like I was treading on my own shattered heart. Back at the condo we were preparing as our new home, the engagement photos we had just taken last week were still hanging in the living room. In the picture, Preston was dressed in a tailored suit, impeccably handsome. He had his arm around my waist, a smile playing on his lips, but his eyes were as deep as ever, making it impossible to read his true emotions. And there I was, nestled in his arms, smiling with pure happiness, my eyes overflowing with dreams for the future. How ironic. I walked to the vanity, and the woman in the mirror had exquisite makeup on, wearing the cream–colored dress he loved most, looking every bit the “gentle and proper” Mrs. Calloway he always described. But this outfit he adored now felt like a thick, sticky layer of paint, suffocating me. I raised my hands and, bit by bit, dismantled my carefully arranged updo, removed the pearl hair clips I was trying out for the wedding, and then, grabbing a makeup wipe. I fiercely scrubbed away the foundation, eyeshadow, and lipstick from my face. Every single swipe brought a near–sadistic pleasure. As the cosmetics came off, they revealed the slightly pale but fresh, clean face underneath. This was the real me, Seraphina. Not the prim and proper prop that Preston needed to deal with his family! My phone rang. It was my best friend, Aurora Cooper, her voice a frantic rush, “Sera! This is bad! I just saw the invitation samples from the printer! The bride’s name is wrong! It’s printed as that b***h Felicity! Your name is in the maid of honor spot! What the hell is going on?” I stared at my own red–rimmed eyes in the mirror, yet slowly, a cold smile spread across my lips. So, what Trevor said was all true. Even the invitations were already printed. I took a deep breath and answered in an unusually calm voice, one that even held a hint of a smile. “Aurora, it’s fine.” Aurora was stunned on the other end. “It’s fine? Sera, have you lost your mind? How can this be fine? It was definitely Felicity’s doing! You need to tell Preston right away, make him…” “There’s no need.” I cut her off, my voice soft but filled with an undeniable finality. “Let’s just leave it as it is.” “We’ll go with what’s printed on the invitation.” “After all…” I paused, watching as the last trace of warmth in my eyes completely died out in the reflection, and said, word by word, with chilling clarity. “I wasn’t planning on marrying him anyway.” After hanging up, the world fell completely silent. I pulled open the vanity drawer, and in the very back, a simple, plain band ring lay quietly. It was the one Silas Croft had pressed into my hand, his eyes red–rimmed, before he went abroad years ago. He’d said, “Sera, if there’s ever a day you’re tired, or if someone wrongs you, put this on. No matter where I am, I’ll come back and take you away.” At the time, I just thought he was being silly. My heart was completely full of Preston, why would I ever need him to take me away? But now, with a trembling hand, I reached out and slowly slid that simple, yet heavy, ring onto the ring finger of my left hand. The size, surprisingly, was a perfect fit. My phone screen lit up. It was a text from Preston, his tone carrying its usual condescending affection: [Come with me tonight to pick out a birthday gift for Felicity. She’s been talking about that one bag for ages. You have good taste, help me choose.] It was followed by another message: [The invitations are printed. I had Trevor go pick them up. I’ll bring them for you to see tonight.] I stared at the messages, and it was as if I could see his face through the screen–that self–satisfied expression of a man who thinks he has everything under control, deigning to grant me a few scraps of tenderness. He was probably still waiting for me to do what I always did: swallow my discomfort, obediently reply with an “Okay“, and then force a smile while helping him pick out a gift for his first love. Waiting for me to see that doctored invitation, to get upset, to confront him, only to be easily dismissed with a few lines like, “Don’t make a scene“, and “Felicity’s just like a sister to me“. He must have thought that I was so desperately in love with him that I would tolerate anything, that I would quietly show up at the wedding on schedule to complete the “socially suitable” ceremony he required. Preston, you’re wrong. This time, I’m not going to cause a scene. Because, at this wedding, the bride won’t be me. But as for whether the groom will be you… well, that’s now a question mark too. I picked up my phone and calmly replied: