Wedding Planning Hell
1151 Words
Elena pov
“No.”
“Elena, it’s just a dress…”
“It’s not just a dress, Clara! It’s a five-thousand-dollar symbol of my complete loss of control over my life !”
I’m standing in the most expensive bridal boutique in Manhattan, wearing a wedding gown that costs more than most people’s cars, staring at my reflection and having what can only be described as an existential crisis.
The dress is beautiful. Disgustingly, heart-stoppingly, fairy-tale beautiful.it is an off-the-shoulder ivory silk that fits me like it was designed specifically for my body, with delicate beading that catches the light and makes me look like a princess from a Disney movie.
Which is exactly the problem.
“You look stunning,” Clara says. “Adrian is going to lose his mind when he sees you.”
“That’s not the point!”
“What is the point then?”
I gesture wildly at my reflection, nearly knocking over a display of tiaras that probably cost more than my college tuition.
“The point is that I look like a bride! A happy bride! A bride who’s excited about marrying the man of her dreams instead of a bride who’s being forced into marriage to avoid being murdered by her psychotic ex-boyfriend!”
The boutique became pin drop silent because every employee and other customer, every person within a fifty-foot radius stops what they’re doing to stare at me like I’ve just announced I’m from Mars.
“Elena,” Clara hisses, grabbing my arm. “People are staring.”
“Let them stare! Maybe one of them knows how to escape from arranged marriages contracted by dead husbands!”
The saleswoman …Vivian, who introduced herself like she was announcing royalty ,walked towards me awkwardly. “Perhaps we should try a different style?” she suggested. “Something less… traditional?”
“There is nothing less traditional!” I spin around, and the dress flares dramatically because of course it does. “It’s a wedding dress! The entire concept is traditional! I might as well be wearing a sign that says ‘property transferred successfully!’”
“Elena…”
“Don’t Elena me, Clara!” I march over to the mirror and stare at my reflection with growing horror. “Look at this! I look happy! I look glowing! I look like someone who chose this!”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” Clara says quietly, obviously sick of me already.
“What’s not a bad thing?”
“Looking happy. Looking like someone who wants this.” Clara steps up beside me in the mirror. “Elena, I have known you since we were seven. I’ve never seen you look at anyone the way you look at Adrian.”
“I don’t look at Adrian any particular way.”
“You look at him like he’s oxygen and you have been drowning.”
The observation hits too close to home. I cross my arms defensively, which makes the dress pull in places it’s not supposed to pull.
“That’s just because he’s attractive. It’s purely biological. Pheromones and genetic compatibility and other sciencey things that have nothing to do with actual feelings.”
“Uh-huh.” Clara’s smile is way too knowing. “And the fact that he has been sleeping on your couch instead of the guest room?”
“He has insomnia. The couch is closer to the kitchen for midnight snacking.”
“And the fact that he makes you coffee exactly how you like it every morning?”
“He is very observant. It’s a business skill.”
“And the fact that he reorganized your spice cabinet and you haven’t changed it back?”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it. Because Clara is absolutely right, and I hate her for noticing.
The truth is, Adrian’s style of organization system actually works better than my alphabetical system. I can find paprika in three seconds now instead of searching through seventeen different containers. But admitting that feels like surrendering some crucial part of myself.
“That’s different,” I mumble.
“How is it different?”
“It just is.”
“Elena Marie Rodriguez—”
“Morrison,” I correct automatically. “Elena Morrison. Elena Rodriguez is dead, remember?”
Something flickers across Clara’s face ,.an expression I can’t quite read. But it’s gone so fast I think I imagined it.
“Elena Morrison,” she corrects smoothly. “You are falling for your fake fiancé, and you’re terrified to admit it because that would mean acknowledging that this whole situation might actually be the best thing that ever happened to you.”
“The best thing?” I spin around so fast the dress makes swooshing noises. “Clara, I’m being stalked by my psychotic ex-boyfriend who murdered my husband! How is any of this the best thing?”
“Because Adrian Kane is completely in love with you.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. I sink onto the little pedestal in front of the mirror, expensive silk pooling around me like spilled cream.
“He’s not in love with me. He’s protecting me because Richard asked him to.”
“Honey.” Clara sits on the floor next to me, not caring that her designer jeans are touching the carpet. “Adrian Kane is a billionaire. He could hire the best security team in the world to protect you from a safe distance.
Instead, he moved into your apartment, reorganized your kitchen, and makes you coffee every morning while shirtless.”
“He doesn’t do it on purpose! The shirtless thing is because he goes running!”
“He could shower before making coffee.”
I pause. She has a very valid point right there.
“Or he could wear a shirt while making coffee.”
Another good point.
“Or he could make coffee in his own room and bring it to you fully clothed.”
“Okay, fine! Maybe he’s doing it on purpose!” I throw my hands up, which makes the dress sparkle aggressively. “Maybe Adrian Kane likes torturing me with his ridiculous attractiveness while I’m trapped in an impossible situation!”
“Or maybe he likes you seeing him as more than just your protector.”
The suggestion makes something flutter in my chest that I absolutely don’t want to examine.
“It doesn’t matter what he wants,” I say firmly. “This marriage is temporary. Two years and then we are free to go our separate ways.”
“What if you don’t want to go your separate ways?”
“Then I’ll be an idiot.”
“Why?”
“Because Adrian Kane is out of my league! He’s sophisticated and powerful and gorgeous and probably has a PhD in making women swoon! And I’m me.
- Writer
