“Oh my god,” Sarah whispered, snapping a photo on her phone. “This is going to go viral. The internet is going to break.”
“Good,” I said, checking my reflection one last time. “Let everyone see what Patricia Montgomery does to people she deems unworthy.”
My phone buzzed on the vanity. It was my mother.
“Honey, we’re about to start seating the family. Are you ready?” her warm voice crackled through the speaker.
I took a deep breath. “Almost. Mom, I need to tell you something. There was an issue with my dress.”
“What kind of issue? A tear? We have a sewing kit—”
“Patricia stole it. She replaced it with a clown costume.”
The silence on the other end of the line was so thick I could hear the faint sound of the string quartet warming up outside.
“She… what?” My mother’s voice dropped an octave, dripping with a terrifying maternal rage. “She swapped the bags? My god. That horrible, vile woman. Emma, do not move. Your father is getting the car. We are postponing. We will drive to the city and find you a dress if we have to break a window.”
“No, Mom. Listen to me. I’m wearing the costume. I’m walking down that aisle.”
“Emma Harrison, you cannot be serious! You cannot let her humiliate you like this!”
“She’s not humiliating me, Mom. I am humiliating her. Please, just tell Dad I’m ready. I’ll explain everything at the altar.”
I hung up before she could launch another protest. I grabbed my bouquet of pristine, tightly bound white roses. The thorns pressed through the ribbon, a sharp reminder of reality.
A knock came at the door. The venue coordinator peeked her head in. “It’s time, ladies.”
Sarah squeezed my hand. We walked out of the suite, the giant plastic shoes squeaking absurdly against the hardwood floor with every step. My father was waiting at the entrance of the garden. When he turned and saw me, his jaw physically dropped. His eyes darted from my perfectly styled hair to the suspenders, then to the massive shoes.
“Emma… what in the name of God…”
“Long story, Dad,” I said, looping my arm through his. My heart was hammering against my ribs, a chaotic drumbeat of adrenaline and terror. “Just walk with me. Please. Trust me.”
He looked at my face. He saw the fire in my eyes, the absolute lack of shame. He took a deep breath, his broad shoulders squaring up.
“Okay, kiddo,” he murmured, patting my hand. “Let’s go show them what you’re made of.”
The heavy oak doors leading to the garden patio stood closed before us. The string quartet stopped playing their ambient prelude. There was a pause. Then, the first sweeping, majestic notes of the Bridal Chorus began to float through the air.
My grip on the bouquet tightened. “Ready?” my dad whispered.
The doors swung open.
Chapter 3: The Long Walk
The late afternoon sun hit my face, blinding me for a fraction of a second. The garden venue was breathtaking—lush green manicured lawns, archways dripping with wisteria, and eighty white wooden chairs arranged in perfect symmetry.
As I stepped over the threshold, the reaction was instantaneous.
It wasn’t a murmur. It was a symphony of audible gasps, choked coughs, and sharp intakes of breath. The air in the garden seemed to evaporate. Eighty heads turned to look at the bride, expecting ivory silk, and instead found a human carnival act.
I kept my chin parallel to the ground. I locked my posture into a regal stiffness. I walked with the slow, measured pace of a queen ascending a throne, the giant plastic shoes emitting a faint squeak-thud, squeak-thud against the stone pavers.
