Elena
Clearly, no time is being wasted in sealing my fate.
When I wake the next morning, the glow of sunlight filters weakly through my curtains, and I instinctively reach for my phone. A single email notification blinks on the screen, stark and impersonal. As I open it, the contents make my stomach churn—a message, not from Stuart himself but from someone working on his behalf, assigning me a time and place. The address belongs to a famous bridal salon, and the appointment is set for this afternoon. No greeting, no explanation, no effort at decorum. Just cold logistics, a further reminder that this is a business arrangement, not a union of hearts.
Perhaps I should be grateful for the lack of pretense. There’s no mask of romance here, no charade to maintain. My thoughts flick briefly to
