Lacey
I stood in the church, profoundly uncomfortable in my wedding dress. It wasn’t the dress’s fault. It was a lovely thing, lush satin trimmed with lace and delicate beading, with a flowing skirt and graceful sweetheart neckline, but it didn’t feel right. Nothing about this wedding felt right. It all felt like a play. Like acting. Like it was staged.
Probably because it was.
There weren't many guests inside the church. The lack of people left me trapped in my thoughts, recalling the various items I had received from my "fiancé" the other day. The items had all been things that belonged at a wedding—with plenty of gifts left over for me to keep. It was strange–the clothes were high-end and luxury, but everything else seemed to be household brands. My "fiancé" had also sent someone to take my measurements for the wedding dress as well as drop off an outfit for Tiff. I’d managed to do my hair and makeup, at least–my cheeks blushed a soft pink, my hazel eyes were lined with subtle gold makeup, and my auburn hair had been braided into a half-crown that sent gentle curls cascading down my back. I felt pretty, at least. If I couldn’t feel genuine, I could feel pretty. That was something.
I toyed with the white bouquet in my hand. Peonies were one of my favourite flowers, but I felt too distracted to really appreciate their beauty. My stepmother was engrossed in conversations with a few guests, putting on her preferred façade—that of a “good mother.” I felt disgusted towards her disingenuity. I knew what she was. I knew why this was happening. I knew what she had done to me. But no one who mattered would ever know.
Caroline, as well as my stepbrother Trevor, were far less subtle than my stepmother was. Their maliciousness was plain as day. They spoke in voices deliberately loud enough for me to hear, mocking comments passed off as “concern.”
“She looks… just lovely, when you consider what she went through to be here!”
“Red lips have never really been her style, but it was so brave of her to try!”
“I was just so worried about her squeezing into that dress—looks like they somehow managed to fit her in, thank goodness!”
Just then, Nicholas Devereaux, the man I was to marry, strode into the church. My heart skipped a beat. He was dressed in a sharp suit, luxurious fabric hugging obvious musculature. What seemed to be a high-end watch glittered on his wrist. I remembered my stepsister’s comments about his being a lowly tailor. It made sense that he’d be able to find such an impressive-looking fake watch, then. He knew how to make himself look put-together, at least.
He caught everyone's attention immediately, all dark tousled hair and strong cheekbones and piercing blue eyes. Caroline’s mocking comment still rang in the air. Nicholas turned to her, an eyebrow raised. I felt myself suck in a nervous breath.
“That dress was custom-made to her measurements,” he said, voice low and even. I suppressed a smile, seeing how Caroline shrank back a step. “I designed it myself. Some of the best worked on it. Surely you aren’t insulting my employers—and at my own wedding, of all places.”
Caroline’s eyes widened. Her face was flushed. “Mr. Devereaux, I’m so—”
Nicholas ignored her. I felt a sting of smug pride. I watched as he picked through the crowd, offering a polite comment here and there but otherwise disengaged from everyone else. Eventually he made his way over to me. Those blue eyes caught mine, and I understood while Caroline had stepped back under his scrutiny. He exuded power. I was better than she was, though, and held steady under his gaze.
“Lacey Sinclair,” he said.
I looked up at him and managed a timid smile. “Nicholas Devereaux.”
“A word, please?”
“Of course,” I replied.
“Somewhere private.”
I couldn’t help the sudden spark of electricity arcing across my skin. “The sacristy,” I suggested.
Nicholas placed his hand on the small of my back and led me towards the small room. I felt far less nervous all of a sudden—more excited. More anticipating. What did he want with me? A dozen possibilities flashed through my mind, some suitable for a church, some very much not.
He pulled me into the small room. “Listen,” he said, voice low. “I’m… rather busy today. I was hoping to wrap the ceremony up quickly, as I have a few other matters to tend to. It’s… nothing personal, you understand. Just business.”
There were inches between us. I looked up at him, incredulous. “Oh—okay,” I muttered.
In a rush to leave his own wedding. I wondered what that meant for our marriage.
“Wonderful.” Nicholas smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He gestured to the sacristy door. “Shall we?”
“Thank you for the gifts, by the way,” I said as he led me back out, rather disenthused.
“My pleasure,” he replied, guiding me to the altar.
He nodded once to the priest before his gaze settled heavily on me once more. The guests started to shuffle back into their seats. The room fell silent, idle chit chat abandoned. All eyes on me. On us.
Those nerves came back.
Tiff sat alone near the front, almost looking like she was drowning in shimmery blue tulle. I smiled sadly and let out a breath. The church smelled like old perfume. One of the guests coughed.
The priest began the ceremony.
I don’t remember much about it now. It feels distant. The priest’s words washed over me without meaning, nothing retained. I looked at Nicholas. He looked at me.
Finally, we got to the part I recognized. The priest, a kindly-looking old man with sunken features, looked happier than either of us.
“Do you, Lacey Court Sinclair, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
Suddenly, I couldn’t look at Nicholas. I looked to the crowd instead, however briefly, searching for a comforting face.
I found my stepmother instead, shooting me a withering glare as she nodded slowly. I do.
A lump formed in my throat. “I do.”
I slid a thin platinum band onto his finger. His hand was cold.
“And do you, Nicholas Abel Vitelli Devereaux, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
He took my hand like it was something delicate, but there was no emotion behind the words as he said, “I do.”
Nicholas placed the ring on my hand with more gentleness than I’d have expected. The pads of his fingers were calloused. The metal seemed to burn.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife!” The priest proclaimed.
Those eyes.
I couldn’t tell what those eyes were hiding.
Who are you?
“You may kiss the bride.”
One hand found its way to the back of my neck, tangling in my wavy hair. The other settled on my waist. I was stunned by how secure it felt. How he held me. I grabbed his shoulder and held my bouquet like a lifeline as he pulled me towards him and kissed me, and it should have been good. He smelled like pine. His stubble grazed my cheek. His lips were soft and fit perfectly against mine. But my mind wandered, wandered, ran away, as he pulled away, as the guests applauded politely. I took a shaky breath and looked up at Nicholas’s impassive expression. The gravity of what had just happened—what I’d just done—settled over me.
I’m married.
Now what?
