Page 15 of Not His Bride

I cut again.

The cut widens until I can slip two fingers inside, but the boning underneath refuses to cooperate. I shove the scissors down farther and hack through another section.

Then the scissors jam.

I drop them into the sink.

“Fine.”

I go back to the kitchen and grab the small knife from the block beside the stove.

When I catch my reflection again, I’m standing in a wedding dress with half the back cut open and a kitchen knife in my hand.

Perfect. Where are those reporters now?

I carefully slide the blade beneath the next section of silk and saw through it. I think about how easily I let my father decide my place in the company, and how badly I wanted to believe Gallagher had chosen me. Worse, I spent years telling myself that Debbie wasn’t actually cruel.

The seam finally gives with a loud tear.

I grab both sides of the dress and pull. Silk splits farther down my back, threads snapping as the bodice loosens around my ribs.

I shove it down my body until it pools around my feet.

Once fully free, gasps shoot from my lungs as if I hadn’t taken a single breath all night. I never want to step in such a thing again.

The heels come next, as does the bodice and slip.

I stand in front of the bathroom mirror in what’s left of my dignity. Unfortunately, it isn’t much. My skin is red across my entire body, likely from me yanking the material all around. I even have a long scratch down my hip, having nicked myself with the scissors or knife and not noticed in my fury.

I also don’t recognize my face. My mascara has streaked down my face; my eyes look and feel raw.

I turn away from the mirror. I can deal with the mess tomorrow. Right now, I want every part of this wedding washed off me. I turn the shower on as hot as I can stand it, pull the pins from my hair, and leave them scattered across the counter. Then I step inside.

The water needles my skin. I brace both palms against the wall and put my head down. The black choker stays on. I don’t take it off, even though it’s velvet and technically not waterproof.

I work shampoo through my hair, dragging my fingers through the tangles left behind by all those pins. Something catches. I pull harder, and a few strands yank painfully against my scalp. Shoot, it’s the ring.

After I remove my hand from my hair, I stare at Gallagher’s gold band still sitting on my finger. Somehow, after cutting myself out of the dress and throwing everything else from today onto the bathroom floor, I forgot about it.

Anger comes back so fast I don’t think. I rip the ring off and throw it toward the sink. It hits porcelain with a sharp clink before disappearing somewhere onto the counter.

I stand there until the water runs cold. My hair is heavy and dark against my neck, flat as paint.

Eventually, I get out.

I order noodles and spring rolls before deciding whether I’m actually hungry, then sit on the kitchen floor while I wait. From here, I can see the red velvet sofa in the living room, buried under more cushions than any one person needs. Black, burgundy, a couple with ravens stitched across the front. My phone keeps buzzing beside me. Mom first, then Dad, then numbers I don’t recognize. I ignore them all. Twenty-three minutes later, I barely open the door wide enough to take the delivery bag, then sit cross-legged on the tile and manage three bites of noodles before giving up. Everything tastes like nothing.

My phone buzzes again. Four missed calls from Mom. Two from an unfamiliar number. Then a news alert fills the screen: JOVI WEDDING ENDS IN PUBLIC ANNULMENT DEMAND. I don’t open it. I hold the power button until the screen goes black, snap the lid back onto the food, and shove the containers away from me.

Sleep, when it comes, is the absence of everything else.

When I wake, the first thing that surfaces is my father’s voice. “My Debbie deserves the best.” I can hear him say it as if it’s the most obvious statement in the world, and to him, it is.

I’ve spent years making that possible. Debbie gets the campaigns, the interviews, her face on every launch, while I’m the one fixing contracts after she agrees to bad terms. If I open my email this morning, there will be a problem waiting for me. There always is. And I’ll do it because that’s what I always do—I fix Debbie’s fuckups. Then Debbie will walk into the next launch with her name attached to whatever I cleaned up.

Except, I don’t want to do it anymore.

I head to the living room and sit on the floor in front of the coffee table, reaching for my laptop. My back rests against the red velvet sofa, pushing two of the overstuffed cushions out of place behind me. The heavy red curtains are still closed, so the only light comes from the lamp beside the couch. Its black shade throws a dull glow across the maroon Phantom wall.