Before The Music Starts

“Freeda, stop moving. You’ll crease the dress.”

“I’m breathing, Winnie.”

“You’re breathing like you just ran a marathon.”

Freeda stood still, arms out, while Winnie fussed with the lace at her wrists. Kris hovered nearby, a pin clamped between her lips, eyes narrowed like the fabric might betray them if she blinked.

“You look terrifying,” Kris said, pulling the pin free. “But in a good way.”

Freeda glanced at the mirror. The woman looking back felt solid—glossed lips, veil set just right, bouquet beautiful and steady in her hand.

Winnie leaned in. “Last chance to admit you’re freaking out.”

“I’m not.”

Kris squinted at her. “You’re glowing. Very suspicious.”

Freeda laughed quietly. “I just want to see him.”

Winnie looked surprised. “Now?”

“One minute.”

Kris pointed at her. “Two. If you cry, I’m dragging you back.”

“I won’t cry.”

And she meant it. Her chest felt light, almost weightless. Like happiness had kicked fear out of the room.

Kris handed over the heels. “Go on. Own it.”

Freeda slipped into the hallway.

It smelled like flowers and vanilla. Someone hurried past with a tray full of glasses. Laughter echoed down the corridor. A door slammed. Music leaked through the walls in little pulses.

She reached the GROOM’S SUITE and lifted her hand to knock.

Her knuckles hovered inches from the wood.

Inside, Randy’s voice drifted through the door.

“She’s still with the stylist.”

Freeda smiled.

A woman’s voice answered smoothly through the speaker. “And she doesn’t know.”

The smile faded.

Randy chuckled. “No. She’s excited. She thinks this is the start of something.”

Freeda’s grip tightened on the bouquet.

“So you’re really doing this?” the woman asked.

“I’m already doing it. Guests are seated.”

Silence.

“Do you even love her?”

Freeda held her breath.

“No,” Randy said, light as air. “Not even close.”

Her stomach just dropped. Gone. Like missing a step, falling before you realize you moved.

She tried to swallow. Her throat wouldn’t work. Her fingers kept squeezing the bouquet.

At the end of the hall, two bridesmaids rounded the corner, laughing, heels sharp on marble. Freeda pressed herself to the wall, breath frozen. She felt like a ghost outside her own wedding, scared they’d see her as she really was.

The laughter faded.

Her heartbeat didn’t.

“Then why marry her?” the woman asked.

Randy let out a sigh, like it was obvious. “Calling it off today would ruin her. The press. The pity. She’d be embarrassed, broke, dragged through hell for months.”

The woman laughed softly. “So you’re her hero.”

“I’m being responsible. Freeda’s a good woman. I won’t wreck her because of my choice.”

“And me?”

His voice warmed, suddenly tender in a way Freeda had never heard. “You’re real. You’re the one I want.”

Her fingers dug deeper into the stems. The ribbon cut into her skin.

“Say it again,” the woman murmured.

“After today, nothing changes. It’s just a ceremony. A show. That’s all it is to me.”

“And tonight?”

Randy’s laugh was quiet, practiced. “She’ll be overwhelmed. Her friends will swarm. I’ll handle it.”

Freeda’s pulse hammered so hard she felt sure it shook the door.

For one wild second, she almost knocked. Almost walked in. Almost demanded he say it again, this time to her face.

Her hand even lifted.

But she stopped.

If he saw her now, he’d smile.

That hurt worse than anything he’d just said.

“I don’t want you touching her.”

Silence.

Then, softer, “Abigail—”

“Just don’t.”

Another pause.

“Fine,” Randy said. “I won’t touch her if it helps you sleep better.”

Freeda felt the air leave her lungs.

Suddenly, water thundered from the bathroom. Loud enough to drown out her thoughts. Sink on full blast.

“Hold on,” Randy called, his voice distant now. “I need to wash up.”

Footsteps. A door snapped shut. The water got even louder.

Freeda stood there, in shock.

The suite door hung open, not quite closed.

She nudged it wider, just enough to slip inside.

The sitting room was empty. His jacket was slung over a chair, and cufflinks were on the table. Randy’s phone sat lit up on the console, screen bright, vibrating softly against the wood.

Her feet moved before she realized what she was doing.

Abigail White.

Her name glared from the top of the screen.

A photo—Abigail curled up on Randy’s couch, wrapped in his blanket, grinning as if she belonged there.

Freeda’s stomach lurched.

A message thread lit up the screen.

After today, you come to me.

Randy’s reply: I will. She’ll be fine.

Another from Abigail: Don’t let her think she won you.

He’d answered: She hasn’t.

Something hot climbed up Freeda’s throat. Not tears. At least, not yet. Just heat, wild and sharp, like her body couldn’t figure out why it wasn’t falling apart.

Water still pounded in the bathroom.

She pictured him in there, sleeves pushed up, hands under the water, calm, slow, cleaning himself off while her world fractured ten feet away.

Her chest tightened.

She set the phone down exactly how she’d found it.

Not a centimeter off.

No trace left behind.

If he came out and saw anything out of place, he’d know she’d been there.

She couldn’t let that happen. Not yet.

She slipped out, closed the door, and walked down the hall.

Her dress brushed against her legs as she walked, the sound too soft for how loud everything felt inside her.

Winnie spotted her first.

She didn’t say a word. She stood there, stuck like something inside her had hit a pause.

Kris frowned. “Why do you look like that?”

“Like what?” Freeda said.

“Like you’ve forgotten how to stand properly,” Kris murmured.

Freeda gripped the bouquet tighter. “Nerves.”

Winnie took a step closer. “Freeda.”

“I’m fine!”

Silence.

The coordinator opened the door. “It’s time.”

Music drifted in, soft and lovely.

Winnie adjusted the veil with careful hands.

Kris brushed invisible lint from Freeda’s sleeve.

No one was joking anymore.

Winnie’s hand brushed hers just once.

Not comfort.

A question.

Freeda squeezed back.

Not reassurance.

An answer.

She walked forward.

The ballroom doors opened.

Light hit her face. Heads turned. Phones lifted. Smiles spread across the room.

Randy waited at the altar.

Handsome. Collected. Confident.

He watched her like she already belonged to him.

She walked toward him, his voice still echoing in her head. “Not even close.”

She stopped in front of him.

Randy took her hands.

“Hi,” he whispered.

“Hi.” She said back

“You look amazing.”

She watched his mouth as he spoke, the same mouth that had promised himself to another woman.

The officiant smiled. “Randy Owen, do you take Freeda James to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do,” Randy said, not missing a beat.

A soft sigh rippled through the guests.

The officiant turned to her.

“Freeda James, do you take Randy Owen to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

Freeda stared at Randy’s face.

That confidence.

That's calm.

The certainty of a man who thought she didn’t know.

His thumb brushed her knuckles lightly.

“Breathe,” he whispered.

His eyes searched hers.

Not with love.

With calculation.

Checking to see if she was still where he’d left her.

But she heard Abigail’s voice instead.

Freeda lifted her chin.

“I do not.”

Somewhere, a glass shattered.

Someone gasped.

A voice whispered her name.

A chair scraped the floor.

Randy didn’t even blink.

That scared her more than if he had.

The officiant blinked, thrown. “I’m sorry?”

“I do not,” she said again, louder this time.

Randy’s grip tightened on her hands.

The whole room fell silent.