Page 18 of The Wrong Groom

The perfect, beautiful bride. Ready for magazine covers. Honestly, my mother is probably hoping for at least a feature in a few celebrity gossip outlets. All press is good press, even though the authors of those pieces are sure to view this wedding as somewhat scandalous due to our ages and the widely-known fact of the arrangement.

She reaches for the contour next, brushing it beneath my cheekbones with a practiced hand. I stay silent, watching the angles of my face sharpen. She’s about to move on to blush when I hear the sharp sound of my mother clearing her throat.

“Could you do more on her nose?” she asks. I flush with embarrassment, which only emphasizes the problem—my nose gets red too easily. I know this fact about myself by heart, because she’s been telling me since I was twelve. I could recite her criticisms from memory, word for word.

This makeup artist, unlike the one who did my makeup for the photoshoot, isn’t argumentative. She just nods and dabs more foundation onto my nose, blending it in with careful strokes. I sit still, trying not to squirm, although I feel like I’m being peeled open and displayed.

“Are you excited?” the artist asks, an obvious attempt to break the awkward silence that fills the room.

I don’t respond right away. I know my mother well enough to know that I should wait.

Sure enough, my mother speaks first. “We’re thrilled,” she says. “This is the perfect match. So much more lucrative than what we had lined up before.”

Prior to my engagement with Gabriel, I was slated to be married to Travis Whitaker, a wealthy investment banker whose family has ties to several influential tech firms. My parents were content with the arrangement until Camille Thorne reached out, proposing something far more beneficial. A connection to the Thorne family name, legacy, and media empire was simply too good to pass up. The Whitakers were promptly dismissed, without hesitation or apology.

I remember Travis. He was handsome, in a glossy magazine sort of way—the traditional, male model look with chiseled features and thick, tousled hair. He was closer to my age too. None of that helped my gut feeling, though. There was something about Travis I found off-putting, for whatever reason. Maybe it was the way he smiled too tightly. Or how he looked through me instead of at me.

Part of me isn’t sure whether or not this is better. At least Travis Whitaker, when I met him, seemed truly excited to marry me, whereas Gabriel is definitely not happy about this arrangement. He looks at me like I’m a problem he’s been forced to solve.

So maybe this match isn’t better. Maybe it’s just a different kind of wrong.

It doesn’t matter either way. It’s not up to me.

The makeup artist falters briefly, clearly taken aback. I catch her reflection in the mirror, her eyes flicking from me to my mother, then back. There’s confusion there, maybe even a flicker of unease. This clearly isn’t like the other weddings she’s worked. I’m not like the other brides she’s helped get ready.

But she recovers quickly, pasting on a small smile. “That’s… that’s wonderful,” she says. I see the pity in her eyes when they meet mine again in the mirror.

I just nod, feeling my stomach flutter.

She finishes my makeup and gathers her tools without another word. As she leaves, a few attendants arrive to help me into the gown. They bustle around me, tightening laces, smoothing satin, pinning delicate folds of fabric into place with expert hands. My hair stylist enters next, adding a few last-minute curls and tucks to my intricate updo.

And then I’m alone.

Alone with my mother.

She takes my arms, stepping back to take in the full effect of the gown, her eyes glistening with emotion. For a moment, I’m touched to see the tears in her eyes. I wouldn’t have expected any crying.

For one surreal second, I think she might actually say something kind. Something motherly. Something I’ve wanted to hear for years.

Then she says, her voice just above a whisper, “Noelle would’ve been such a beautiful bride.”

There it is. My stomach twists, a familiar rush of guilt going through me. Of course she would say that. Of course, even now, on my wedding day, I’m still just a placeholder for someone who’s no longer here.

She’s right too. That’s the worst part. It should’ve been Noelle.

It should’ve been her walking down the aisle in this dress, with our mother beaming proudly beside her. She was the golden daughter. The perfect one. And I’ve been living in her shadow for so long, I wouldn’t know who I was without it.

But I still miss her. God, I miss her.

“I know,” I whisper, my voice catching in my throat. “She would’ve been.”

Noelle, my older sister. When I was younger, she was my confidant, my role model. I wanted to be exactly like her when I was her age. The realization hit me hardest when I was fourteen, the age at which Noelle passed—I no longer had an older sister to look up to, to emulate.

She would’ve made our parents proud. She wouldn’t have flinched under the pressure. She wouldn’t have needed to be reminded to sit up straight or speak clearly or hide the redness of her nose.

The reminder of Noelle steels my resolve. She would have been perfect, beyond reproach as a bride, and I’m determined to do the same. I lift my chin, straightening my back.

Time to get married.