The night before the wedding, sleep was nothing but a dream itself. My mind was a tangled mess of thoughts and memories, churning endlessly. Something about the wedding gnawed at me, but I couldn't put my finger on it. By the time I finally gave up on finding rest, it was 6 a.m., and my father walked into my room for the first time ever.
The moment he stepped inside, his face twisted in a mix of disgust and disbelief. His gaze roamed over the tiny, dilapidated space I had called home for years. For the briefest second, there was a flicker of something—regret, maybe?—but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.
Behind him entered an entourage of bridal stylists, makeup artists, and hairdressers, their tools in hand. They wasted no time, bustling around me like I was their latest project. My long, tangled blonde hair was brushed and styled until it cascaded down my back in soft waves. Makeup was applied meticulously, hiding every imperfection and bringing a glow to my pale face.
By the time they were done, they led me to Diane's room to get dressed. I stared at the pair of designer heels laid out for me—Diane's, of course. It was clear my stepmother hadn't bothered preparing anything of my own. Even for my wedding, I had to borrow.
When I caught sight of myself in the mirror, I froze. For the first time in forever, I saw someone beautiful staring back at me. My blonde hair, always resembling a bird's nest, shone with life, and my blue eyes sparkled with a brightness I hadn't known they possessed. I couldn't help but murmur, "I'm… beautiful."
My father entered the room again, his footsteps deliberate. He stopped, his eyes sweeping over me with something akin to approval. "Wow, my daughter is beautiful," he said, but his words dripped with sarcasm.
I rolled my eyes. His feigned affection didn't fool me. He kissed my forehead perfunctorily and handed me a bouquet of flowers before stepping aside.
Stepmom strutted in next, her outfit far more subdued than the attention-grabbing dresses she usually wore. The universe seemed to have finally dealt her a small blow, and for once, I didn't feel like the punchline of her jokes.
Charles was next. Dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, he looked as dashing as ever. His dark hair framed his sharp features perfectly, and I couldn't help but feel a pang of envy. The black hair seemed to be the Morgan family's signature look, a trait both my father and Diane shared. I was the odd one out, the blonde outlier in a sea of dark-haired perfection.
As we prepared to descend, my father instructed me to veil my face. "No one is to see you until the ceremony," he ordered.
The house buzzed with activity below—laughter, music, the murmur of guests arriving. My heart thudded as I waited, pacing the room back and forth. Finally, stepmother and one of the bridal assistants appeared to escort me downstairs.
I stepped onto the grand staircase, the room below coming into view. The decorations were extravagant, every detail meticulously arranged. Guests turned their eyes toward me, and a ripple of whispers spread through the crowd.
"She's beautiful."
"Is that Evelyn? I didn't expect…"
The compliments were surprising, but they felt hollow. I descended slowly, step by step, until I reached the bottom. My eyes scanned the room, searching for my groom, Mr. Volkov.
But he wasn't there.
Instead, standing at the altar was a man dressed not as a pastor, but as a lawyer. The altar itself was adorned with flowers and ribbons, a spectacle befitting a grand ceremony. Yet, no groom awaited me.
Confused, I turned to my father, silently asking, Where is Mr. Volkov?
He smiled at me, a smile so tight it felt forced, and gestured for me to face forward. The lawyer stepped forward, holding a document.
"This," he announced, "is the marriage agreement. The groom has already signed."
My heart sank as he handed me the file. I flipped through the pages and saw the name—Michael Volkov—scrawled in a bold signature. My fingers trembled as I realized what was happening.
The lawyer extended a pen toward me. "Sign here."
I hesitated, my mind racing. This is it? No vows, no exchange of rings, no groom by my side? Just a piece of paper?
My father's piercing gaze bore into me, leaving no room for defiance. Slowly, I took the pen and signed my name. The ink barely dried before the lawyer declared, "Congratulations to the newly married couple!"
Cheers erupted around me, the sound of applause and laughter filling the room. Music began to play, and guests mingled, as though nothing about this arrangement was out of the ordinary.
I stood frozen, clutching the bouquet as the reality of what had just transpired sank in. This wasn't a wedding—it was a transaction.
My stepmother's expression remained neutral, while my father basked in the attention, already chatting with guests. The lawyer packed up the document and left as though his job was done.
I turned to scan the crowd again, hoping to catch a glimpse of my supposed husband, but there was nothing. Just me, standing there, lost and bewildered.
It was over.
The cheers and laughter around me felt like a mockery. My gaze fell to the floor as I asked myself the same question over and over: What the hell just happened?