I’m Getting Married Tomorrow
1142 Words
The door burst open.
Élise stepped out of the bathroom, towel in hand, her hair still damp.
In the doorway stood Daniel — furious, disheveled, his voice trembling with anger and fear.
— “So here you are!” he shouted.
— “I’ve been calling for three days! The press is going insane, producers are losing their minds — what the hell are you doing, Élise?”
She looked at him calmly, unshaken.
— “Do you really want to know?
I’m finally making my own decisions.”
Daniel gave a sharp, incredulous laugh.
— “Your own decisions? Are you kidding me? Lemaire says you’ve lost it completely!”
Élise froze for a second, then threw the towel onto the chair.
She stepped closer, her voice low but cutting like glass.
— “I haven’t lost my mind, Daniel.
I’ve just stopped living by yours.”
Daniel’s face flushed red.
— “What does that even mean? What are you planning now?”
She paused. Her next words fell like a quiet explosion.
— “I’m getting married. Tomorrow morning.”
Daniel stared at her, speechless.
The room felt suddenly too small.
— “What did you just say?”
Élise took a step forward, meeting his gaze with unwavering calm.
— “You heard me. I’m getting married.”
— “To who?!” he barked.
— “God, Élise, tell me you’re not serious!”
She smiled — faintly, bitterly, but with resolve.
— “His name is Dr. Emir.
And yes, I’m serious.”
Daniel ran a hand through his hair, pacing.
— “A stranger? A foreign doctor? You’ve known him for what — days?
You’ll destroy everything you’ve built!”
Élise’s tone didn’t waver.
— “No, Daniel.
I’ll finally build something that’s mine.”
He stopped, staring at her as if she were someone else entirely.
Then, quietly, he muttered:
— “You really have lost your mind.”
Élise turned toward the window.
Rain had started again, tracing silver lines down the glass.
Without turning back, she said softly:
— “Maybe.
But this time, it’s by choice.”
“Is That It?”
Nina was still fuming, phone clutched in her hand, adrenaline and panic warring under her composed exterior. The calls, the producers, the photographers — everything was a pressure point.
— “What are you doing, Élise?” Nina snapped.
— “You’ve been missing for three days. Producers are furious. The press is camped at the door. Who is this man? Where did he come from? You’ve been with Daniel for three years — you’re risking your career, your reputation!”
Élise calmly ran a nail file along her fingertips at the edge of the table as Nina’s accusations echoed around the room. Her eyes did not follow; her movements were slow, deliberate, distant. One more stroke; a tiny pale pile of nail dust collected.
— “He’s after your money — everyone knows men like this,” Nina continued, half pleading, half accusing.
— “You’ll be dragged through the mud. Sponsors will pull out, projects will collapse. Do you even understand what you’re doing? You’ll be unemployable!”
A faint, icy smile touched Élise’s lips. She finished filing, set the emery down, and lifted her head to meet Nina’s stare—steady, unflinching, tired but resolute.
— “Is that it?” she asked, quietly, a tone that challenged.
Nina froze for a moment; her lips trembled, the panic pooling in her eyes. She opened her mouth to protest, then faltered. The single word she managed was thin, uncertain. Then silence.
Élise shrugged imperceptibly.
— “Fine then.”
Nina braced herself. But Élise didn’t relent; she leaned forward, precise and businesslike:
— “Get me a wedding dress. And a groom’s suit. The groom is about 185 cm tall, athletic build. Bring four or five groom’s suits — have them ready by tomorrow morning.”
Nina’s mouth fell open. For a beat she was speechless, flipping between her calendar and contact list, adrenaline switching to logistical mode.
— “But… Madame, that’s—” she started.
Élise’s smile was a cool blade.
— “Remember? I forbade you to question my decisions.”
Nina’s voice was muffled, defeated, but professional:
— “Okay. Okay. I’ll do it.”
Élise turned toward the door, still wearing Emir’s cardigan, a soft scent of lavender clinging to her. Nina sprang into action — calling bridal shops, tailors, an emergency wardrobe team. She marshaled help like a commander, the panic channeling into efficiency.
As Nina organized the operation in the hallway, Élise’s calm voice floated back:
— “And please — tell no one. This is between us.”
Nina nodded, a complex look on her face — fear, duty, and, begrudgingly, a thin stripe of admiration.
The door closed. Outside, the city buzzed; inside, a plan had just been put into motion.
Charger, Bag, and the Call
Nina left muttering, her footsteps heavy down the hall.
— “I don’t know why you do this, but I’m getting used to it,” she said, bitter.
— “Be ready — tomorrow the agents, producers and sponsors will be at the door.”
Élise looked up, calm and precise:
— “Go,” she said, short and final.
Nina grabbed her bag and stalked out; she didn’t look back once as the door clicked shut.
Élise pulled an old charger from a drawer — the battery icon on her phone was a small red sliver. She plugged it in; the screen blinked alive.
— “Where’s my bag?” she asked, voice steady in the quiet apartment.
From the doorway Nina called back without turning:
— “The producer sent it. It just arrived.”
Her footsteps faded.
Élise moved quickly, smoothing the address from the pocket, then went downstairs to the building desk and spoke a few words. A paper bag arrived in minutes. She opened it: her purse, a small wallet, a note she hadn’t seen in ages — but there was no time for nostalgia.
The phone began to buzz; the charging icon brightened. She woke the screen and saw the red battery and next to it a number: ~30 missed calls. Her hands trembled for a fraction, but her face set. Without opening a single call, she selected them all and deleted them — a clean sweep of the noise.
She picked up the small scrap of paper with a pen-scrawled number — Emir’s handwriting — and traced the digits with her finger. “Emir,” the name appeared on the screen as she typed. She paused for a breath, then pressed call.
The dial tone sounded like a held breath.
She whispered to herself:
— “Pick up.”
— “Please pick up.”
- Writer
