if the dress fits, lie

I stood alone in the long hallway. The sound of classical music drifting from the main chapel was faint.

My fingers clenched at the sides of the pastel green dress I wore as a bridesmaid.

My feet refused to move toward the bridal suite door. I knew Tiara was in there, making a decision that would change everything. And I was scared... scared that if I walked in again, I’d end up screaming at her. Or crying. Or both.

Hurried footsteps echoed from the end of the hall, snapping me out of my thoughts.

“Where’s Tiara?” The voice cracked like a whip.

It was our cousin. Camila. Just as explosive as the red lipstick she always wore. Her bridesmaid dress flared dramatically as she stormed toward the bridal suite and flung the door open without knocking.

I was frozen, too stunned to stop her.

“WHAT THE HELL?!”

Her scream pierced the silence like shattered glass. I held my breath.

Camila reappeared in the doorway, breathless, eyes wide with shock. “She... she’s NOT IN THERE!”

My blood froze in place. “What?”

Camila gathered the hem of her dress and took off down the hallway, heading toward the side exit that led to the service path.

I chased after her, lungs already burning.

We burst out into the back lot of the church. A small parking area reserved for VIP guests. The California sun was brutal, but the morning air felt suffocating. And then I saw her.

Tiara. In her wedding gown, skirt billowing, the train dragging along the ground.

Running.

Away from the church.

Her hair, once neatly pinned, had partly fallen loose, whipping behind her in wild strands. Her heels sank into the grass, but she didn’t stop. Ran like the devil was at her heels.

“TIARA!” Camila shouted, but there was no response.

She reached a black Bentley waiting by the lot.

Viktor. I could barely make out his silhouette behind the wheel, the tinted windows reflecting like armor.

Tiara opened the door without looking back.

And in less than three seconds, the car pulled away, leaving behind a trail of dust and crushed gravel.

I stood frozen. My heart twisted in my chest like it was being wrung out. Camila was yelling, phone in hand.

Guests began trickling out from the chapel.

The Bentley sped down the narrow road, a sleek shadow slicing through California’s bright morning. The earth trembled faintly as the luxury car vanished around the corner, taking Tiara with it. And whatever secret she carried.

I can’t even think.

I ran.

My heels stumbled over gravel and grass, my bridesmaid dress flaring in the wind, threatening to trip me. But I kept running, toward the small gate on the side of the church, still halfway open.

“TIARA!” I cried out.

My heart pounded like it was trying to escape my chest. I could taste salt on my lips. Tears or sweat, I didn’t know.

Everything blurred.

Until someone grabbed my arm.

A hand—

Strong, cold.

I stopped.

Reagan.

He stood there in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His wedding jacket slung over one arm, his tie undone and hanging around his neck. His face… wasn’t the face of a man just left by his bride.

No devastation.

No rage.

Just… blank.

“Don’t chase her,” he said calmly.

I stared at him. “What?”

“I said, don’t chase her.”

Still gasping for breath, I yanked my arm out of his grip. “She… she ran away from your wedding. She just got in a car and—”

“I know,” he cut in, voice still level. “And it was the right call.”

I fell silent. The spring breeze carried the scent of flowers, sweat, and... tension. My tongue felt numb. “You’re not angry?”

He laughed. Light. Cold. “Angry? Should I be?”

His eyes met mine. Those same dark eyes I remembered from ten years ago.

“Listen, Tara… everyone thought Tiara and I were the perfect couple. But from the start, we were a ticking bomb. She was too busy being ‘the perfect Tiara’ for everyone. And I was too busy being the heir who had to ‘fit’ her.”

My jaw clenched. “But you still proposed to her,”

He shrugged. “Because it’s what everyone expected. And because... I was trying to forget someone.”

I frowned. “Forget who?”

But my voice was swallowed by the noise swelling around us. I looked toward the chapel. Some guests were rising from their seats, heads turning in confusion, whispers becoming anxious murmurs.

The main doors flew open. My mother was speaking to my father, her expression panicked. Across the courtyard, Reagan’s extended family gathered around an older man standing tall and still, like a lion guarding his territory.

Reagan’s grandfather.

His suit was dark and crisp, his face sharp like it had been carved from stone. Flanked by two family bodyguards, he walked with a slender cane that barely touched the ground, more a symbol of power than actual support.

His eyes, cold and calculating, scanned the scene, until they stopped… on me.

He didn’t slow down.

Instinctively, I stepped back. Once. Then again.

I told myself to stay calm. But my entire body had gone stiff. Something dark slithered in my gut.

Suddenly, Reagan grabbed my arm, steadying me. “If you all still want this marriage to happen,” he said evenly, “then we go through with it. But not with Tiara. With Tara.”

The world stopped.

For one full second, I forgot how to breathe.

“What?” I whispered, unsure if the voice even belonged to me.

I yanked my arm from his grasp, nearly stumbling from the shock.

Reagan looked at me. Sharp. Steady.

I stepped back again, but this time he gripped my wrist tighter. “Reagan, this is insane. You can’t be serious. You can’t—”

“I am,” he said, voice calm as ever.

His grandfather was only a few feet away now. Those aged eyes studied us closely. Judging, measuring.

“I know how much the family’s reputation matters,” Reagan said, his tone like cold steel. “And I know what happens if this leaks. But the wedding can still go on.”

Then he turned me slightly, gesturing toward me.

“With Tara De Carrillo.”

It felt like lightning hit me.

“You’re insane!” I snapped, my voice finally cracking. I tore my hand from his. “Do you hear yourself? You want me to take my twin sister’s place at the altar—after she ran away? You think this is some kind of game?”

Reagan didn’t flinch. No anger. No begging.

Just a sharp, unshakable resolve.

“I know you’re not ready, Tara. But we both know this was never about love,” he said.

“This girl… she’s better than the other one,” his grandfather cut in. “More poised. Better educated. If she agrees, we move forward. Not a single reporter will notice the difference between the two of them.”

I almost gagged. “The two of them?”

Like Tiara and I were just Model A and Model B of the same product.

I turned to Reagan, searching his face for anything. Doubt, hesitation, a trace of guilt. Would he defend me?

But no.

He stayed silent.

I took a shaky breath. The sounds around me started to blur. I could hear the whispers spreading through the guests. Some were saying my name. Others were already assuming I was stepping in because Tiara had suddenly fallen ill.

I needed to get out.

“I’m no one’s replacement,” I whispered. “And I’m not playing this game.”

Then I turned around.

But I didn’t make it three steps before Reagan’s voice stopped me again.

“If you walk away, Tara… you leave your family to deal with this mess alone. You think your father won’t explode? You think your family’s company won’t get dragged into this scandal?”

I froze.

“This isn’t just about me. It’s about you, too.”

I closed my eyes.

And there it was... my real conflict.

Between logic and pain. Between duty and pride.

Between family and… feelings that should’ve died long ago.