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“Let’s find you a dress,” Milo says softly, pushing open the door to a future I never wanted. This isn’t exactly how I anticipated the choosing of my wedding dress going.
Once inside, we’re met by an eager saleswoman who takes one look at me and immediately starts pulling out different dresses for me to try on.
I’m overwhelmed by all the different styles, fabrics, and designs. None of them feel like me; they all feel like props for some twisted game of house that I’m being forced to play. I have never been in a serious relationship, much less imagined if I wanted a princess or mermaid style dress. Those kinds of choices were for people with different - much different - circumstances.
Milo watches silently from the corner of the room as I try on dress after dress, each one feeling more suffocating as the reality of what’s expected of me becomes my sole focus.
I stand in the middle of a sea of white and ivory, my heart racing as the shop assistant flutters around me, her hands pulling out dress after dress. The taffeta and satin glisten under the boutique’s soft lighting, each garment more extravagant than the last. I’m lost amidst fabric mountains, my mind numb as I detach myself from what I’m doing.
“This one?” she asks as I stare vacantly in the mirror.
“Whichever,” I mutter without care, sick of trying dresses on; at this point, I want to leave.
“Or I have these,” the woman brings in yet another rack, and I am about to tell her to shove her dresses up her skinny ass when Milo speaks.
“You’ll try them on,” Milo’s voice is firm, slicing through my anger. His presence looms over me, authoritative and demanding.
“Why does it matter what dress? It’s not like it is a real wedding,” I retort, the words bitter as they leave my tongue.
Milo signals the woman to step outside, leaving us in an uncomfortable, heavy silence with unspoken words. “And why do you say that?” he prods, his gaze sharp upon me.
But I dodge the question like a stray card on the blackjack table. Instead, I throw his loyalty into the mix. “You’ve had an obsession with me for five years, and you don’t care that I’m marrying your boss, that I’m expected to pump out babies for him and play house?” My voice is laced with accusation, trying to pierce his composed exterior.
“He’s my friend, so no, I don’t care. Leone is a man of his word.” Milo’s reply comes too easily, unwavering, and I feel foolish for even asking.
The woman timidly peeks back in, but I extend my hand for the next dress before Milo can send her away again. It feels like surrender. He acknowledges with a nod, and the dress is passed into my reluctant grip.
Each dress is another layer of confinement, wrapping tighter around my future. By the tenth, I’m drained, no longer retreating to the privacy of the changing room, just slipping into the next option right there, not caring about Milo watching me change. This one—a fusion of lace and silk—settles around me differently. As I gaze into the mirror, the ‘me’ staring back is a stranger adorned in a beautiful lie. Anyone would think I’m Cinderella. Little do they know I’m marrying a pumpkin and not a prince.
“I like this one,” I hear myself saying, but the reflection shows my grief, contrasting with the gown that hugs my curves perfectly.
Milo steps up behind me, his figure a dark shadow in his suit against the purity of the dress. “You don’t sound like you like this one?” Concern tinges his voice, a crack in his usual steely features.
“No, I do. It’s fine,” I reply, stepping down from the pedestal, but his hand catches my arm, halting my retreat.
“Then what is it now?” His eyes hold mine in the reflection as he turns me back to face the mirror, seeing through the pretense.
“Nothing, it doesn’t matter.” But it does. Every fiber of my being screams how wrong this all is.
“Then, if it doesn’t matter, what is it?” he presses. I shrug, he wouldn’t get it, nor would he care but I tell him anyway.
“Never thought I would marry someone I don’t love and that my father or sister wouldn’t be there.” The confession aches, and I fight back the tears threatening to pool in my eyes.
“I can’t make you love Leone or me, but you’ll see we aren’t so bad,” Milo says, but his words don’t make a difference. I’ve seen who they are.
I nod, wordlessly telling the woman this is the dress, as if sealing my fate could ever be so simple. She helps me out of it, promising alterations by the day’s end.
Exiting the shop, I’m led back to the car, but the longer we drive, I realize the direction isn’t familiar, and unease coils within me. “What?” Milo’s brow arches at my questioning glance.
“Where are we going?” My voice barely rises above a whisper.
“To see your sister. I already asked Leone,” he tells me, and I am startled. I knew Leone said it this morning, but I figured he was just saying that so I behaved. I try not to let myself get excited, yet the closer we get, the harder it is to hide my excitement.
SEVENTEEN
FALLON
As we pull up in the underground parking, I climb out of the car too quickly because Milo jumps out, seizing my arm. “You do not leave my side; you do not draw attention to yourself here,” he warns, his voice a deadly whisper as he jerks me closer.
