The nightmare replayed over and over until I shut my eyes and try to forget that night. Forget the night I was pulled back into the dungeon, a slave to my family’s responsibilities to society.
Andrea, my mother’s hairstylist, shoves her iPad in front of me, requesting I look at the endless pictures of styles because my wild hair will be a nightmare to tame. My mother got her two cents in, telling me how awful I was as a child and why she let the nannies take care of it.
I don’t expect anything less.
I smiled, nodded my head, and went back to staring at the mirror like a ghost.
This drags on for what feels like hours. My sisters join me, my eldest pregnant with baby number two, reiterating how poor timing this was to get married during her third trimester. Of course, it’s all about her and nothing to do with me.
“So, tonight Sebastian is going on his infamous bachelor party,” Clara snickers. “The Playboy King’s last hurrah.”
For as long as I could remember growing up, Clara and Antoinette bullied me into thinking the worse about situations and people. God forbid they look in their own backyards and see their husbands are not so perfect either.
Things between Sebastian and I are steady. We reached a mutual agreement about our impending marriage—as long as I don’t hinder his political career, he doesn’t care what I do.
My sister planned a girls’ night out.
I’m not stupid, Sebastian had dropped hints that their night involved many rather questionable bars in town, but given his new job, my father warned him to be on his best behavior.
“You’ve lost so much weight. A bit too much, now you look like a starved African woman,” my mother states.
“That’s rather politically incorrect of you, Mother,” I scold her. “Comparing my weight to women struggling in Africa is uncalled for.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Gabriella, stop getting all worked up over nothing.”
As soon as I’m done, I excuse myself to get ready for tonight. There’s nothing special planned to say goodbye to my singlehood. Simply a dinner at La Chateau with my mother and sisters’ friends. I invited Aubrey to attend, but their flight won’t arrive until late tonight. I was disappointed she won’t be there but glad I get to see her tomorrow. We still chat on the phone every so often, but not once is Oliver mentioned.
I am wearing the dress my mother laid out for me—pale pink reaching to my knees with modest straps and closed-in black pumps. It’s ugly, but I don’t care how I look. Tonight will drag on no matter what I wear.
We arrive at the restaurant around seven. My mother and her friends laugh around me, drinking Dom Perignon as they ridicule other women in their circle. Nasty comments about weight and botched plastic surgery.
My sister, Clara, drinks too much. Tipsy and splashing her champagne glass around, accidentally spilling some on her Versace dress. She trash talks everyone as well—a minion of my mother. No one, no matter how accomplished or beautiful they were, will ever be good enough in their eyes.
Antoinette, my older sister, complained the whole time. I’d feel sorry for her if she weren’t such a bitch. She ends up leaving early, giving me an excuse to exit the restaurant to gather my thoughts.
I stand in the side alley, pulling out my cell. Oliver’s number is still stored in my phone. I have no clue whether or not it’s still active, I’ve been too scared to call him.
I need closure before tomorrow.
I just need him to know how sorry I am for treating him the way I did.
It’s all I can think about.
My finger scans through my phonebook, and in one swift motion, I hit dial only to be met by a string of tones.
The number is disconnected.
Lowering my head, I slide against the dirty brick wall until I’ve reached the ground. The small piece of my heart still beating shrinks, setting a wave of nausea as my chest tightens, and the air becomes incredibly stiff.
I’ve waited too long to say I’m sorry.
I’ve waited too long to tell him I love him too.
My insecurities and lack of confidence guided me back into the dark place only Oliver had managed to pull me out of. He was my knight in shining armor, and ironically, the real Prince Charming.
But tomorrow, my so-called fairy tale is supposed to begin. Five-hundred guests, every influential mogul and their trophy wives will be in attendance watching me walk down the aisle.
The reception, a staggering one point five million dollars, is being held at my parents’ property. My mother planned the whole thing, so the details are irrelevant to me.
I just need to be there, all dressed and ready to walk down the aisle.
And this time tomorrow, I will be Mrs. King.
Gabriella
Inside the grand property of my parents’ home, guests have gathered, seating themselves on the rows of white chairs perfectly positioned on the pristinely manicured lawns.
The lush gardens are the ideal backdrop for the day. My mother loves gardenias, hiring a famous wedding coordinator who made sure my mother got exactly what she wanted. They are placed at the end of each aisle, accompanied by a fancy emerald bow—emerald being the color of our family’s emblem.
It is beautiful, but weddings always are. It’s just a completely surreal feeling when you’re the person it centers around.
As I stand behind the tall pillars, the wedding coordinator, Jean-Claude, gives me a one-minute warning.
Several people are hurrying around me touching my hair, powdering my face.
The train of my dress is dragged along the ground into a perfect position.
There are voices all talking at once, instructions about who is walking
