I always thought weddings came with months of planning, a Pinterest board, and a mother who cried over lace samples. Mine comes with three days, a security detail, and a groom I barely know—but who somehow already knows me.
It’s not love. Not yet. It’s an arrangement. A merging of families, power, and expectations. But somewhere between the tension and the tradition, I’m carving out space for myself. For us.
Kat’s sprawled across the bed, flipping through a bridal magazine like it owes her money. Tosha’s perched on the floor with a clipboard and a color-coded pen system that scares me a little. Sam’s sitting by the window, sketching something in her notebook—probably a cake, possibly a getaway route.
“I still think Vegas would’ve been easier,” Kat says, tossing the magazine aside. “Quic
