stabbed into my scalp though. My makeup is flawless—my skin looks creamy, and my lips are covered with a light pink shimmery gloss.
I am like my bedroom in my parents’ home—cotton candy sweet. My earrings are a gift from my father, two carats in each earlobe. They are probably some kind of apology for how this day is going to end up, but even more, I know that they are likely for appearances— for show.
My dress is gorgeous . Lace lays over a light organza. It has a deep V in the front with one-inch straps on my shoulders, and it’s backless. So backless if I bend over, my crack will show. It is fitted to the floor, and on my feet are ridiculously expensive robin’s egg blue high heels, ones with red soled bottoms. Only the best for me on this day.
Appearances are all that matter.
I am to be presented to my future husband as the picture, perfect, bride.
I don’t have a veil, just some crystals placed randomly in my bun. My something old is the teardrop diamond necklace that was my great-grandmother’s, brought over from France when she married my great-grandfather. My something new is the dress. Something borrowed is a twenty-carat weight diamond bracelet from my mother. And my something blue—my shoes.
On the outside, I am ready—ready to marry Maxim Lasovska. On the inside, I am terrified.
I have yet to see the man. Every time we were to meet, he had something mysteriously come up. I wasn’t sure this day would ever actually come . I prayed it wouldn’t, but it did, and here I am, smoothing down my dress and waiting for my father to deliver me to a stranger. Waiting for him to hand me over, like some kind of trophy, to a man I have never even seen in a picture.
My father walks into the room, his blond hair perfect, his blue eyes focused on his phone; forever the entrepreneur businessman. Father’s suit is Prada, classic , and it fits him perfectly. I am alone in the room, my mother otherwise occupied, and I have no bridesmaids. I am sure the three hundred guests are going to find that odd, but I have no friends and my parents don’t socialize with their families, so I have no cousins who I am close to or even know about. I am actually surprised that my parents didn’t just pay some girls my age to be bridesmaids. Apparently having none is acceptable.
I wonder if my groom will have any men standing beside him when I walk toward him.
“It is time,” the wedding coordinator says. My father gives her a curt nod, slipping his phone into his pocket.
“You look lovely, Haleigh. As always, perfection,” he murmurs.
This is important to my father, perfection . It is why I strive to be perfect—the perfect daughter and the perfect ballerina. I want everybody to be happy. I am a people pleaser, even if it is at the cost of my own happiness.
It is ingrained in me to do whatever is needed to be done so the people around me will be happy. Never, ever buck the system.
“Thank you, Father,” I say softly, dipping my head slightly as I wrap my arm around his offered elbow.
“You will not embarrass me. This marriage is very important,” he informs me curtly.
I’m not sure why it is so important that I marry this stranger, but I have always been taught to never, ever question the decisions my parents make for me—and they make all of my decisions.
“I would never intentionally embarrass you, Father,” I admit softly, and I wouldn’t. I am a good girl. I always do what I am told— always .
We stand in front of the closed double doors of the church, and I let out a shaky breath. It is time. I watch the wedding planner pull the doors open, and all eyes are on us. Six hundred eyes. Three hundred people.
All of them focused on me.
I smile softly, trying not to panic. I imagine I am on the stage as the music begins and we walk toward the altar. I hold my breath, my eyes scanning the man standing at the front—my soon-to-be husband.
The man is tall, so much taller than I expected, standing
I am like my bedroom in my parents’ home—cotton candy sweet. My earrings are a gift from my father, two carats in each earlobe. They are probably some kind of apology for how this day is going to end up, but even more, I know that they are likely for appearances— for show.
My dress is gorgeous . Lace lays over a light organza. It has a deep V in the front with one-inch straps on my shoulders, and it’s backless. So backless if I bend over, my crack will show. It is fitted to the floor, and on my feet are ridiculously expensive robin’s egg blue high heels, ones with red soled bottoms. Only the best for me on this day.
Appearances are all that matter.
I am to be presented to my future husband as the picture, perfect, bride.
I don’t have a veil, just some crystals placed randomly in my bun. My something old is the teardrop diamond necklace that was my great-grandmother’s, brought over from France when she married my great-grandfather. My something new is the dress. Something borrowed is a twenty-carat weight diamond bracelet from my mother. And my something blue—my shoes.
On the outside, I am ready—ready to marry Maxim Lasovska. On the inside, I am terrified.
I have yet to see the man. Every time we were to meet, he had something mysteriously come up. I wasn’t sure this day would ever actually come . I prayed it wouldn’t, but it did, and here I am, smoothing down my dress and waiting for my father to deliver me to a stranger. Waiting for him to hand me over, like some kind of trophy, to a man I have never even seen in a picture.
My father walks into the room, his blond hair perfect, his blue eyes focused on his phone; forever the entrepreneur businessman. Father’s suit is Prada, classic , and it fits him perfectly. I am alone in the room, my mother otherwise occupied, and I have no bridesmaids. I am sure the three hundred guests are going to find that odd, but I have no friends and my parents don’t socialize with their families, so I have no cousins who I am close to or even know about. I am actually surprised that my parents didn’t just pay some girls my age to be bridesmaids. Apparently having none is acceptable.
I wonder if my groom will have any men standing beside him when I walk toward him.
“It is time,” the wedding coordinator says. My father gives her a curt nod, slipping his phone into his pocket.
“You look lovely, Haleigh. As always, perfection,” he murmurs.
This is important to my father, perfection . It is why I strive to be perfect—the perfect daughter and the perfect ballerina. I want everybody to be happy. I am a people pleaser, even if it is at the cost of my own happiness.
It is ingrained in me to do whatever is needed to be done so the people around me will be happy. Never, ever buck the system.
“Thank you, Father,” I say softly, dipping my head slightly as I wrap my arm around his offered elbow.
“You will not embarrass me. This marriage is very important,” he informs me curtly.
I’m not sure why it is so important that I marry this stranger, but I have always been taught to never, ever question the decisions my parents make for me—and they make all of my decisions.
“I would never intentionally embarrass you, Father,” I admit softly, and I wouldn’t. I am a good girl. I always do what I am told— always .
We stand in front of the closed double doors of the church, and I let out a shaky breath. It is time. I watch the wedding planner pull the doors open, and all eyes are on us. Six hundred eyes. Three hundred people.
All of them focused on me.
I smile softly, trying not to panic. I imagine I am on the stage as the music begins and we walk toward the altar. I hold my breath, my eyes scanning the man standing at the front—my soon-to-be husband.
The man is tall, so much taller than I expected, standing
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