Layla
The morning of our wedding—our second wedding, that is—dawned crisp and clear. Warm but not hot. Sunny, but not too bright. Dry for a New York day.
Perfect. It was the perfect day for a wedding.
Late summer sunlight filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows over the lawns and gardens of the estate. The occasional cloud flitted across the sky, tempering its perfection with wispy tufts of white. A light breeze stirred the trees, the flowers.
Over the past week, the staff had worked tirelessly to transform the grounds into an ethereal haven—flowers in full bloom, soft white drapes fluttering in the breeze over rows and rows of chairs, a white terraced altar settled at the back of the largest garden.
I stood in my bedroom, staring at my reflection in the floor-length mirro
