CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
SCARLETT’S POV
WEDDING STUFF
This is real.
That is the part my mind keeps tripping over, the part that refuses to settle no matter how many times I repeat it to myself like some kind of twisted mantra. This is not a nightmare I am going to wake up from. This is not some temporary situation I can talk my way out of or delay until it disappears on its own.
This is happening.
And somehow, this is what my life has been reduced to. I am sitting in my own living room at two in the afternoon, surrounded by a small army of stylists, wedding planners, designers, and assistants who move around me with so much ease like they have done this a million times, their voices overlapping as they discuss fabrics, themes, color palettes, floral arrangements, and a hundred other details
