Chapter 66
Suddenly, my thoughts are interrupted by Soren’s mother waving at me across the table. She’s been prattling on about flower arrangements and seating charts, her voice a pleasant drone in the background of my internal turmoil. But now, she wants my input. Soren looks at me, his blue eyes filled with something I can’t decipher.
“The roses!” she exclaims, her voice filled with an alarming amount of excitement for someone discussing flowers. “Should we stick to the traditional red, or is white more your style?”
I glance at Soren, searching for some hint of what to say. But he’s impassive, his warm gaze suggesting nothing more than polite curiosity. With a suddenness that feels like a punch in the gut, I’m reminded that this isn’t our wedding.
I mumble something noncommittal about liking both colors and try to tune out the rest of the conversation.
The more I think about it, the more nauseated I feel. Why does pretending always feel worse than lying?
The rest of the day plays out like a maddening echo of our breakfast. Soren’s mother, an effervescent woman with a disarming charm, bombards me with wedding magazines and fabric swatches. I nod at the appropriate intervals, responding with neutral replies to her queries or telling her to decide. She seems none the wiser to my lack of enthusiasm.
“We could have the reception in that beautiful garden your
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father used to love,” she suggests to Soren, who is not listening. Maribel poring over a landscape photo in one of the many bridal magazines spread across the table, and Max huffs out a breath, bored. The poor kid has been stuck with me for hours as she plans, and he plays by himself.
“But what about the dress?” she gasps at some sudden thought. “Oh, dear, we haven’t even begun to think about that! I’ll have to make some calls.”
She hurries off to fetch her collection of bridal catalogs, leaving me alone with my thoughts and Soren’s disinterested gaze. He’s been silent throughout this ordeal, offering me no comfort or help from his mother since he has been stuck in never–ending phone calls. His indifference stings more than I care to admit as he waves his mother off.
It’s not long before she returns, an array of catalogs cradled in her arms. “I know it’s all so overwhelming, dear,” she says with an empathetic smile as she hands me one. The cover showcases a radiant bride in an exquisitely tailored gown. A lump forms in my throat as I recall my wedding dress. This feels cruelly ironic.
As I flip through pages of happy brides and dreamy gowns, my heart grows heavier with each passing moment. But I maintain my façade for Soren’s mother’s sake.
An hour later, I’m utterly exhausted from the charade. The scent of a thousand different flowers from the catalogs mingles with my perfume, making me light–headed. I swear if I need to scratch and sniff on more pages I might scream.
“Soren, shouldn’t you be providing some input, dear?” His mother chides gently. I steal a glance at him across the table.
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He’s immersed in an article on his phone, seemingly oblivious to our conversation.
He lifts his gaze from his screen and sighs. “You know I trust your judgment, Mother. Whatever Bree wants.” He puts emphasis on my name as if reminding me to play my part as an enthusiastic bride–to–be. I glare at him before seeing his lips tug at the corners. This fucker is listening and enjoying watching me squirm at his mother’s enthusiasm. He finds bloody amusing!
“I’m bored,” Max states, and I agree with him. Luckily, for Max, he is saved by his grandfather, who stands.
“Me too, let’s go throw the ball outside,” Alaric says and Soren pays attention then like he is wishing he had the same idea so he could escape his mother.
*******
~Soren~
The library is a war zone, stacks of glossy paper and satin ribbons strewn about as if a florist’s shop exploded. My mother brandishes a catalog like a sword, slicing through options with a practiced eye. Her excitement is palpable, almost infectious, but I can only muster a tired smile in return. She’s talking of peonies and place cards when her stomach growls louder than any words she’s saying.
“What about lunch, dear? We haven’t even eaten?” Her eyes sparkle with more enthusiasm for organza than one should legally possess. With a clap of her hands, she rises. “I’ll go find out what time afternoon tea is. We let our lunch get cold.” And off she goes with her unbridled wedding ambition.
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It’s at this moment that Bree, my reluctant fake bride–to–be, spots her chance. Her eyes flick to me, then to the door.
“Ah, what are you doing?” I ask, though it’s clear as crystal- she’s bailing on me.
