Clara POV:
Elara rushed toward me, the lavender fabric of her bridesmaid dress swishing around her ankles. The brilliant smile she'd walked in with had vanished, replaced by a deep V between her brows.
"Clara? Are you okay?" she whispered, her voice low enough for only me to hear. Her sincere brown eyes were filled with a concern so real it felt like a physical blow.
Of all the fake smiles and hollow congratulations, her worry was the only genuine thing in the room. And because of that, it hurt the most.
I couldn't tell her. I couldn't drag her into this mess. Ford's influence, the things he was capable of... I couldn't risk it.
I took a breath, summoning every ounce of my stage training. I manufactured a smile I hoped was bright enough to blind her. "Of course, I'm okay, Elara. Just... nervous. You know, pre-wedding jitters."
The excuse was pathetic. I was Clara Montgomery. I'd performed in stadiums for eighty thousand people. I didn't get stage fright.
Elara's frown deepened. "Jitters? Clara, you look like you're about to walk to your own execution, not your wedding."
Her words were too accurate. I felt the mask crack.
I looked down, fussing with a perfectly placed fold on my skirt. "Don't be dramatic. It's the happiest day of my life." My voice trembled.
She caught my hand, her palm warm and firm. "Look at me, Clara. If something is wrong, you have to tell me. We're best friends, aren't we?"
I met her insistent gaze. The truth was a hot, bitter thing on the tip of my tongue. I was so close to letting it spill.
But then my mother's voice cut through the air. "Elara, perfect timing! Come help me check Clara's veil. Oh, heavens, Clara, you're pale as a ghost. Makeup!"
My mother's frantic energy shattered the fragile tension between Elara and me, giving me an escape.
I shot Elara a grateful, pleading look that I hoped said I'm fine, and then obediently tilted my chin as the makeup artist descended with a powder puff.
Elara stared at me for a long, heavy moment, her eyes a mix of hurt and confusion. She finally let out a soft sigh and said nothing more, just adjusted my veil with gentle hands.
I knew I'd hurt her with my lie. But it was the only way I knew how to protect her.
My mother, dissatisfied with my complexion, instructed the artist to add more blush until my cheeks glowed with a "happy, bridal flush."
I looked at the stranger in the mirror, the one with flushed cheeks and empty eyes, and a chill went straight through me.
An assistant hurried into the room. "Mrs. Montgomery, it's time. The guests are seated, and Mr. Cohen is ready."
It was time. Time for the judgment.
My body began to tremble, a slight, uncontrollable shiver.
Elara squeezed my hand again, a silent transfer of strength.
My mother beamed at my made-up perfection and linked her arm through mine. "Let's go, my dear. The world is waiting to see the most beautiful bride."
Her arm was like an iron clamp, leaving no room for retreat.
She half-pulled, half-dragged me out of the suite and down the long, flower-lined corridor toward the ceremony hall.
Giant engagement photos of Ford and me lined the walls. We were smiling, laughing, the picture of a perfect couple.
How ironic. That photo was taken right after one of our worst fights, forced on us by his PR team.
With every step, I felt myself drifting further from who I really was.
At the end of the hall stood two massive, gold-inlaid oak doors.
Behind them were a thousand guests, countless flashing cameras, and my goddamn destiny.
I could hear the muffled hum of the crowd and the low, elegant notes of a string quartet.
My mother stopped, gave me one last critical look, and then placed my hand in the waiting arm of my father, Carlisle Montgomery.
