Daunting Dream

Chapter 14

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Chapter 14: Truth, Tulle and Temptation.

Dream Dauntson.

It was the day before my wedding.

The air was still. Quiet. Deceiving.

You’d think I'd be glowing with excitement, pacing in silk robes and giggling over flowers and fittings like one of those magazine brides. The kind who wake up in satin sheets, sip champagne with their bridesmaids, and rehearse how they’ll toss their bouquet like a Hollywood actress on a stage.

But instead, I stood in my living room barefoot, staring at the wall, consumed by the chaos inside me. My living room, so ordinary with its beige sofa and scattered toys, felt like the center of a storm. My heart was too loud, my breath too shallow, my thoughts a mess of jagged pieces that refused to fit together.

A million questions. A million fears. No one to ask. No one to answer.

I was an orphan.

No mother to fuss over my dress. No father to threaten the groom half to death. No siblings to tease me about cold feet or sneak me into the kitchen for midnight cake. No family… except one person who had filled that role for years.

Mrs. Wilma Wonder Williams.

My foster mother.

My pillar.

My quiet place.

If there was anyone in this world I needed to see before walking down the aisle—it was her. She was the one who had brushed my hair on my first day of school, who had held me when nightmares shook me awake, who had reminded me that even if the world abandoned me, I was still someone’s child.

“I have to go see Mum today,” I whispered to myself, as though saying it aloud would steady my resolve. My heart was already beating faster, my chest tightening with both anticipation and dread.

“Dorey!” I called out.

“Yes, Mummy?” came the sugary-sweet voice of my four-year-old daughter, Doreen Diora Dauntson.

Her voice was music. A melody that reminded me why I had made all these sacrifices, why I had signed that cursed contract, why I was even considering binding myself to a man I didn’t know if I loved.

“Today is Friday, sweetheart. A beautiful Friday morning… the beginning of everything,” I murmured, mostly to myself. The words came out soft, almost like a prayer, though I wasn’t sure who I was praying to anymore.

Dorey wasn’t in school today. Her school had given her a short break after the surgery. She was healing fast—faster than I could’ve imagined. The scar on her tiny chest was fading, her laughter was louder again, her steps steadier. She was proof of resilience, proof that miracles came in small packages.

But still… she was just four. My baby. My reason.

“What are you doing in the kitchen?!” I called out, suddenly noticing the faint smell of chocolate. The scent was rich, unmistakable, curling into the air like a guilty secret.

No answer. Just quiet. Suspicious quiet.

I darted toward the kitchen and gasped.

There she was—my baby, standing on a stool, her tiny fingers covered in frosting, her lips and cheeks smeared in chocolate like a mischievous painting. Her wide eyes looked up at me as if caught in the act of a crime.

“Doreen Diora Dauntson!” I snapped, crossing my arms with all the sternness I could muster.

“Oh no… I’m in trouble,” she muttered under her breath, her little shoulders hunching like a cartoon character caught red-handed—and then, in the blink of an eye, she bolted out of the kitchen at full speed.

“No breakfast for you!” I shouted after her, barely able to hide the laugh bubbling in my throat. She was too much like me at her age—wild, dramatic, uncontainable. “Go to your room and get ready—we’re going to see Mum at the orphanage!”

“Okay, Mummy!” she giggled, her tiny feet pounding against the stairs as she scrambled up, already forgetting her chocolate crime.

I leaned against the counter, shaking my head, half-amused and half-exasperated. Children had a way of making the heaviest days lighter without even trying.

---

I took a deep breath and turned back to the kitchen.

Toast. Eggs. Tea. That would do. Nothing fancy, nothing that would remind me of weddings or receptions or champagne flutes clinking in the air. Just the basics. The essentials.

My stomach didn’t want much—nerves had taken over, twisting and turning with every thought—but I had to eat. I needed the strength, not just for today, but for tomorrow. For whatever came after.

By the time I finished, Dorey was back downstairs, bouncing into the living room like a sunshine parade.

She wore a flowery green dress, her tiny black shoes clicking against the tiles, and matching green hairbands that made her curls look like a crown. She looked like springtime embodied, a living bouquet of joy.

“Ready!” she beamed, spinning in a little circle as if waiting for my approval.

“Let’s go,” I said softly, my chest warming.

---

The orphanage hadn’t changed.

The smell of crayons and old wood filled my lungs the moment I stepped inside. The chatter of small feet echoed through the hallways. The laughter, the tears, the quiet whispers of children carrying dreams bigger than their little bodies could hold.

It was like stepping into a memory—warm and bittersweet.

The peeling paint on the walls, the faded murals of cartoon animals, the squeaky swings out back—it was all the same. A place that was both sanctuary and reminder. A place where I had learned to be both child and survivor.

When we arrived, I sent Dorey off to the playground where a few familiar faces squealed in delight to see her again. Her laughter joined theirs, high and bright, floating like music through the air. For a moment, I closed my eyes and listened, imprinting the sound into my heart.

Then I headed to the office.

I had called Mum earlier and told her it was urgent. She had told me to come right away, her voice laced with a seriousness that told me she already sensed something was wrong.

The door to her office creaked open and there she was—Mrs. Wilma Wonder Williams, sitting behind her desk, her glasses resting halfway down her nose. Her hair, streaked with gray, was tied back in a bun, and her hands were folded neatly over a stack of papers.

Her eyes lit up the moment she saw me.

“Davey, sweetie!” she said, rising to her feet with a speed that belied her age. She crossed the room and embraced me tightly, the scent of lavender clinging to her clothes, familiar and comforting. “You’ve lost weight. Are you okay?”

“Good morning, Mum,” I said softly, holding on longer than necessary. Her arms felt like home.

“What was so urgent?” she asked as we both sat down, her gaze sharpening, already peeling back my layers the way only she could.

There was no point dancing around it. My heart was already pounding like a drum in my ears. I blurted it out before I lost my courage.

“I’m getting married.”

She blinked once. Slowly. Her brows furrowed. “To whom?”

“Devon Damien Drawson.”

Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence. Her expression stiffened, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“Why?” she asked finally, suspicion crawling into her voice. “Do you… love him?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. The truth tangled in my throat, refusing to come out clean.

“I don’t know.”

Her lips thinned further.

“Then why marry him?”

“Because… he paid for Dorey’s surgery,” I said quietly, shame coating my words. “I signed a contract. If I don’t marry him, I’ll owe him thirty million dollars.”

Mum’s face darkened. Her hands, usually so calm, clenched into fists.

“That monster!” she exclaimed, her voice shaking with fury. “How dare he trap you like that?”

Tears stung my eyes, but I held them back. “You know I don’t have a choice, Mum…”

“Yes, you do,” she said firmly, her eyes blazing with the kind of fire that could move mountains. “You always have a choice.”

“Mum, he saved my daughter’s life,” I replied, my voice breaking, my heart aching. “And now… I owe him my own.”

“No. You don’t.” Her tone softened, but her resolve was steel. “That man may have helped you—but that does not mean you give him your future in return. That’s not help, Dream. That’s manipulation.”

“But the contract—”

She leaned back, eyes misty with something between anger and sorrow. “Contracts can be broken. Hearts? Not so easily.”

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I didn’t know what to say.

I had walked into that office for clarity. For peace. For answers.

Now I was drowning in more confusion than before, my chest heavy with a burden I couldn’t shake.

Was I doing the right thing? Was marrying Devon an act of gratitude… or an act of surrender?

I glanced out the window.

Dorey was laughing, chasing butterflies with other kids—her curls bouncing, her smile radiant, her little arms reaching for the sky. She was free. Unbothered. Loved.

Could I ever have that kind of freedom again?

The truth I was running from.

The tulle I was expected to wear.

And the temptation that tugged at my soul.

Would I ever escape?!

I wasn’t walking toward a wedding. I was walking into a war—armed with nothing but truth, tulle… and temptation.