Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 15867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 79(@200wpm)___ 63(@250wpm)___ 53(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 15867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 79(@200wpm)___ 63(@250wpm)___ 53(@300wpm)
But … I haven't made a single move. Not yet, at least. Maybe it's that I'm still in shock from all of this happening so fast, but I haven't left.
And before I know it, I'm being fitted into a wedding gown.
Like most women, I imagined what I wanted my wedding dress to look like from a young age. I keep telling myself that this isn't a real wedding, just something unfortunate I'm being forced into, and I shouldn't care what kind of dress I wear. Still, I turn down four dresses before I slide into the fifth and finally feel a spark.
"Huh," I say, turning back and forth in the mirror of the guest room. Xavier didn't trust me not to leave, so he had a local bridal shop bring me a small selection to choose from, and the attendant who delivered them already looks exhausted. She perks up when I finally display interest. "This one … isn't so bad. I like it, I think."
The dress is off-white and strapless, with a plunging neckline. It's form-fitting through the torso and then flows down to my feet. The skirt isn't big or fluffy, but it does have some volume to it. There are no jewels or crystals, just simple elegance.
"Oh, this one is perfect on you," the attendant gushes, hurrying over to adjust the veil pinned to my hair. "What do you think?"
I tilt my head at my reflection. The dress isn't fancy, but it makes me feel beautiful, natural, and not overdone. "It will work," I tell her after a long moment, feeling my heart clench in my chest. I think about my late mother, the businesses my father is trying to save, and the sacrifices I have to make to ensure that happens. It isn't fair, but life rarely is.
I try to focus on the positives—all the money I'll save, never having to worry about bills. It will be okay. I'll have my real first wedding someday, and this will all be something to look back on and laugh at.
It's hard to feel amused right now, though, when I'm looking at myself in the mirror as a bride, set to marry a man I don't even know.
"Okay," the attendant says cheerfully, unaware of what a mess my life is currently. "Let's get you out of that dress."
Once I've changed back into Xavier's sweats, I head downstairs to the kitchen. My stomach is growling, and it's been hours since I've eaten anything. I was too nervous to go down to the kitchen when I woke up, despite the amazing smells wafting up through the floor. When the wedding dress fitter showed up, there'd been an enormous muffin and bottle of water outside the door, along with a note reading, 'You're not a prisoner.'
I ate the muffin, but I still felt like a prisoner. Still, if I was going to be brave enough to pick out a dress, I needed to be brave enough to explore the rest of the almost-mansion.
When I descend the stairs, I run into the last person I expect to see, and I stop dead in my tracks. "Dad?"
He looks miserable, half sheepish, half guilt-ridden. "Hey, kid." He hefts the luggage at his feet. "I helped get some things from your apartment. You gave me a key last year, and … well, I figured you'd rather I go through your stuff instead of someone you didn't know."
I cross my arms, relieved to see my things, but not my father. "Okay. Well, thanks, I guess."
Dad rubs the back of his neck. "I'm going to stay here tonight since, uh, the wedding is tomorrow. Did you want to invite any of your friends?"
I think about the girls I had gotten close to in college and blanched. "Hell no. This is humiliating enough with you here, and you're the one who got me into this mess. In fact, you can leave. I'm not exactly happy with you right now."
Dad's expression is wounded, and he opens his mouth to speak, but someone else beats him to the punch.
"He's staying. If this facade is going to work, this wedding needs to look legitimate, and that means your father has to walk you down the aisle."
I turn to see Xavier coming out of the other room, and in the daylight, he's even more intimidating … and even more gorgeous. It's infuriating, really. My husband-to-be is wearing a T-shirt and jeans, and somehow he still looks like he walked straight off a fashion runway. I think it's something about how he carries himself. There's an aura of power around him.
I'm flustered, feeling self-conscious in his oversized sweats, my hair in a neat bun at the back of my neck, so I could try on the veils. "Why, uh, does it need to look legitimate?"
"Have your father take your things to your room and get dressed. Something … nice. I'll explain everything, and then there's a few people I want you to meet."