I glance at my cell phone and notice several missed calls. “Merde,” I say to myself, then raise my eyebrows in surprise. I haven’t casually spoken in French since my semester abroad a few years ago. How odd.
“There you are,” a voice from behind me says.
I turn and smile at the man who just entered my office. He stands in the frame of the French doors wearing a tailored tuxedo, his sandy blonde hair tussled in that casual sexy way that only works for certain men.
I still feel stuck… elsewhere, but I try to clear my head and focus on the present as I stand. “Hey. Sorry. I took an unexpected nap and didn’t hear my phone.”
I walk into his open arms, and he hugs me briefly, then holds me at arms distance. “You’re not ready,” he says, shaking his head, though there’s a hint of a grin on his lips. “And why do you still have that shirt? You know I can’t stand it. It’s crass and unbecoming of my future bride.”
I shrug, pulling away. “It’s my good luck charm for studying. And you’re right, I lost track of time, but it won’t take me long to dress.”
We have a gala to attend tonight, one I’m actually excited for. It’s at The Getty Center—a place I spend a lot of time for my grad work in Art Restoration.
Even as I think these thoughts, I feel a kind of conflict I can’t explain. Like I’m in the wrong place, with the wrong person. Like I’m not safe.
I shiver despite the warmth of the room as my fiancé’s attention is pulled to the desk where I’d just been sitting. I follow his gaze, first noticing the picture of the two of us hanging on the wall. We look happy. In love.
But then crimson blood begins dripping down the portrait, and I cover my mouth before I scream. I blink and the blood disappears.
What the hell?
I rub my eyes, confused by what just happened. My pulse quickens, and I look for something to distract myself, my gaze landing on the thick stack of cream parchment on the corner of my desk. I rush over, picking one up. “Our wedding invitations came,” I say, trying to keep the anxiety out of my voice. “What do you think?”
He takes it from me and studies the perfect calligraphy.
The honor of your presence
is requested at the marriage of
Ms. Celeste D’LeLune
to Dr. Corbin Cutter
Saturday, the thirteenth of October
Two thousand and twenty
At half past eight in the evening
He looks up and smiles, pulling me into another embrace, this one longer, more possessive, and I have the sudden and powerful urge to pull away and run, but that’s just silly. What on earth is wrong with me?
“They’re perfect,” he says, kissing the top of my head. “Just like you. Soon, we will be married and nothing, and no one, will ever keep us apart.”
20
Tears track silently down my pale cheeks. I don’t bother to wipe them away as I gaze silently out the window of my bedroom. Instead, I search once again for what has changed inside me. I should be happy. I don’t understand why I’m not. I live in a mansion on the coast of California with an attractive and successful man who loves me. I’m enrolled in the PhD program of my dreams. I have everything my heart could want.
And yet, I feel trapped in a gilded cage, a songbird who is denied her music. Especially now, as I turn from the window and stare at the gown Corbin bought me for the gala.
A sense of panic and the most haunting déjà vu overtakes me when I see it lying across our bed.
It’s sparkling blue and shimmers like sunlight on a perfect sea.
It’s the loveliest dress I’ve ever seen in my life. I reach for it automatically. The fabric is silky and soft in my hands, and I am gripped by a nausea that feels soul deep. In my mind, I see flashes of blood, of a beating heart, of death and violence. I release the gown and swallow the bile burning my throat, my hands shaking uncontrollably.
I sit on the bed and try to steady my breathing, the anxiety slowly receding, but leaving behind a dark cloud that sours my mood.
When I feel calm enough, I clench my teeth and slip on the gown and matching shoes, then style my hair into a French twist. When I look in the mirror, I frown. This isn’t right. None of this is right.
That disorienting feeling is back, and I have the sense of missing someone deeply, so deeply my heart hurts from it.
I brush the turbulent emotions aside and join Corbin in the living room. He’s dressed in a tux and nursing a whiskey. He smiles when I approach. “I knew that color would match your eyes perfectly,” he says.
I try to respond the way I should, with gratitude and excitement, but he narrows his eyes, clearly attuned to what’s lacking in my response. “You’ve seemed different since I got home. Is something wrong?”
I shake my head, as much to clear it as to answer him. “I think my nap threw me off. I’ll be fine once my head clears. Let’s get going before we’re late.”
“Or before I decide to keep you home and take that dress off you.” He winks and then offers his arm as we make our way outside.
My stomach churns at his innuendo, and I’m more confused than anything else. Since when do I find the idea of intimacy with Corbin so repulsive?
Our driver—Alex—is waiting for us and we slip into the back of the limo and sip on champagne as Alex navigates the Los Angeles traffic.
The gala is in full effect when we arrive, and though my mood hasn’t improved, I’m inexplicably relieved to no longer be alone with Corbin.
Is this what cold feet means for brides, I wonder? I thought it would happen closer to the wedding if it was going to happen at all.
A live orchestra fills the ballroom with music and servers in matching black and white outfits carry trays laden with drinks and hors d’oeuvres. I clutch Corbin’s arm as he charms everyone who comes to greet us. I smile and make small talk, sipping wine and eating the occasional pastry puff. But I feel disconnected from it all. Untethered by my own life.
And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see something that sends ice cold shivers up my spine. I freeze, my breath hitching, my heart racing. “Please excuse me,” I say. “I need to find the lady’s room.”
Before Corbin can offer to escort me, or chastise me for leaving when we have very important people to meet, I slip through the crowds and disappear from his view, turning a corner into a long, empty hallway.
Why do I suddenly feel so nervous?
I know I can’t have seen what I thought I saw, and I’ve half convinced myself to return to the party when a flicker of light turns into a girl, her face pained, her arm outstretched.
“Estelle?” I cry, and run toward her, nearly tripping on my dress.
Strong arms catch me, and I turn, startled, to find a tall, beautiful man holding me up. His rich sepia-toned skin contrasts brilliantly with cobalt eyes that hold the depth of the ocean itself. His jaw is squared and chiseled and his dark hair is short and stylishly messy. He fills out his tuxedo with muscle that looks earned from more than just time in a gym. And everything about him feels painfully familiar. And achingly mine.
The sight of him here, now, touching me, fills part of the hole in my heart.
I clutch him, riveted by his expression, unable to pull my gaze from his. After a moment, I speak, my voice hoarse. “Thank you,” I whisper.