Emily stands in front of the mirror and barely recognizes herself. The white dress transforms her into a stranger—elegant, dressed to impress, yet utterly unfamiliar. Her mother fusses nearby, smoothing the skirt and muttering about the happiness of the newlyweds.
“Darling, why so glum?” Margaret Thompson frets, noticing Emily’s expression. “This is the happiest day of your life!”
“Mum, I’m fine,” Emily forces a smile. “Just a bit nervous.”
The nervousness is far from what her mother assumes. A heavy, bitter ache churns in Emily’s chest, a residue of the argument with Andrew last night that turned her world upside down.
They sat in his one-bedroom flat, Andrew steeping tea while Emily twirled the guest list in her fingers.
“Listen, are we sure we should invite your Kate?” Andrew mused, still at the stove.
“Which Kate?” Emily frowned.
“Eleanor Whitaker, your work friend. The one who keeps hounding us for visits.”
Emily’s brow furrowed. Eleanor had been her best friend for ten years, since university. A bit clingy, yes, but no reason to exclude her from the wedding.
“Andrew, she’s my best friend. How can I not invite her?”
“C’mon, love,” he waved a hand. “Best friend? She meddles in our lives. Remember when she told you to leave me after that fight? Just last February?”
“She was worried about me,” Emily defended. “And we made up, just like always.”
“Exactly. And she still glares at me. Emily, I don’t want strangers at our wedding who oppose our marriage.”
Emily set the teacup down, untouched.
“Andrew, she’s known all my exes, my secrets…”
“You mean the exes you’re *still* comparing me to,” he cut in. “She probably thinks one of them was better.”
“Nonsense! Where’s this coming from?”
Andrew sat across from her, taking her hands.
“Em, please. Tomorrow’s the most important day. We need people who genuinely support us. Eleanor… she’s always been against me.”
“She hasn’t,” Emily protested weakly, though deep down she knew Eleanor had never liked Andrew.
“She has. Remember when we first met? She said I’m too controlling.”
Emily did. Eleanor had told her more—how Andrew was possessive, manipulative, how Emily had become quieter with him. She’d chalked it up to jealousy; Eleanor was single.
“Fine,” Emily mumbled. “If it’s that important, I’ll call Eleanor and cancel the wedding.”
“That’s my girl,” Andrew beamed, kissing her forehead. “You’ll see, without her it’ll be so much better.”
Now, in her wedding dress, Emily recalls Eleanor’s face when she got the call. Shocked, then lost, then tears.
“Em, we’d planned everything… I even bought my dress, my gift…”
“I’m sorry, I know this sounds sudden. We decided to keep it small, just family…”
“But you’re my closest friend!” Eleanor wailed. “Emily, what’s going on? Is this Andrew’s doing? He never liked me.”
“No one asked you to uninvite people,” Andrew had lied.
Eleanor’s pause was heavy.
“Maybe this is for the best. I couldn’t be happy watching you marry someone who doesn’t truly love you.”
“You’re being dramatic,” Emily snapped.
“No, it’s true. He’s changed you, Em. You used to be bold, adventurous. Now you’re afraid to speak up, afraid to please *him*.”
“I’m not—”
“I mean it. When was the last time you did something *you* wanted? When did we ever visit without his permission?”
Emily faltered. She couldn’t recall.
“I want you to be happy, seriously. If this marriage doesn’t work out, if things get hard—call me. Always.”
By midnight, Emily had cried herself to sleep. Andrew noted her puffy eyes at dawn and shrugged, “See? That’s why I didn’t want her here.”
“Em, love, what are you doing?” Her mother’s voice pulls her back. “The guests are arriving, you’re still at the mirror.”
“Coming, Mum.”
She adjusts the bouquet of white roses—Andrew’s choice, not the peonies she’d wanted. “Roses are classic,” he’d said. “Peonies are too… common for this day.”
The venue holds forty guests—Andrew’s relatives, her coworkers, but no Eleanor. That absence presses on her like a stone.
Andrew greets her at the altar, radiant in his tailored suit. The one *he* picked, while she nodded.
“Beautiful,” he whispers, gripping her hand. “See? No distractions. Perfect.”
Emily nods, smiling through the well-wishes. The celebrant’s words blur as she thinks: in half an hour, she’ll be Mrs. Andrew Thompson.
“Emily Thompson, do you take Andrew in marriage?” The celebrant’s voice booms.
Emily lifts her eyes—Andrew’s gaze is warm, but there’s an edge of ownership that chills her.
“Yes.” The word feels like a contract she can’t escape.
Rings, kisses, applause. Her mother cries happily. Andrew’s mother wipes her eyes with a handkerchief. The photographer snaps shots, guests congratulate, but all Emily hears is Eleanor’s voice: *When was the last time you did something you wanted?*
At the reception, she sits beside *husband*—the word feels foreign—and smiles. Andrew toasts, recounting their “meets” at the gym. How he asked her out. How she’d fallen for him.
They’d met at a yoga class. She practiced, he worked out. Afterward, he approached, asked her out. He was tall, handsome, confident.
But he left out the two weeks of invasive questions—*Where were you? Who did you see? Why no reply?* How her circle shrank to his friends. How he “accidentally” checked her phone, sulked at workplace messages from men.
“Emmy, remember when you first visited?” Margaret chortles. “So shy, wouldn’t say a word.”
“Of course,” Emily smiles.
Andrew had warned her what to say—*Don’t mention her advertising job.* *Don’t admit she’s renting a flat before marriage; his parents don’t approve of “modern” women.*
“And now, look at her!” Andrew’s mother gushes. “Andrew brought out her femininity.”
*Or suppressed her autonomy.* The thought slithers in, but Emily crushes it.
The reception drags. Dances, games, toasts. Emily balls her fists under the table, but Andrew senses it.
“Where are you going?” he tightens his grip. “The host’s got a game for the couple!”
“Ladies and gentlemen! Let’s play ‘Left or Right’!” The host bellows. They sit back-to-back, each with a shoe—hers and Andrew’s. Answer questions by lifting the relevant foot.
*Who’s more jealous?*
Emily lifts Andrew’s. He picks his. Laughter erupts.
*Who concedes more?*
Both lift hers. More giggles.
*Who leads the household?*
Emily hesitates. He *does*, but will the guests think her a doormat? If she answers honest, he’ll bristle.
She picks Andrew’s. He lifts his. The room erupts.
“Perfection! A true marriage!”
Andrew pulls her close, murmuring, “Good answer, love.”
In that moment, Emily knows. Everything cracks. She excuses herself, stumbles to the restroom, locks herself in a cubicle. Tears flood her, smudging her makeup.
What have I done? Married a man who sees her as his property, who praises her for “good” answers in his twisted test of submission. Who barred her best friend from her wedding.
The door creaks.
“Emily?” It’s Irene, her colleague.
“Inside here.”
“Oh my—*why are you crying?*”
“Iris… Do you love your husband?”
“Yes, but… why?”
“Does he let you see your friends?”
Irene’s brow furrows. “*Let?* Emily, it’s not that. I see them all I want.”
Emily says nothing. It’s answer enough.
“Emily, are you sure you’re okay with this? I mean, truly? Not because it’s too late to turn back?”
The question hangs. Emily stares at the mirror—her wedding dress, the elegant hairstyle, the professional makeup. And her weeping eyes.
“Too late now,” she whispers.
“Never too late,” Irene insists. “If you’re doubting, maybe you should—”
“Emily!” Her mother dives in, frantically fixing her makeup. “Andrew’s looking for you. Why are you crying?”
“Happy tears,” Emily lies.
“Of course! A nice man, solid, caring. He’ll look after you.”
“Thank you, Mum.”
Irene watches, then murmurs, “My number’s in your phone. Call me if…”
The rest of the night drifts. Emily dances, cuts cake, tosses her bouquet. All as expected. All like a fairy tale.
Except this fairy tale smells of fear.
Later, alone with Andrew, he beams.
“Brilliant wedding,” he boasts. “No distractions, no sour notes.”
Emily nods.
“Tomorrow, our new life begins,” he continues. “I’ve waited so long. You’re mine now, and we’ll finally be happy.”
*Mine.* Not “ours,” but “his.” Like a trophy.
Emily closes her eyes, visualizing Eleanor. What’s she doing? Crying over lost friendship? Or grateful she didn’t witness this charade?
Maybe Eleanor was right. Love shouldn’t demand such sacrifices. Shouldn’t force friendship losses, self-effacement, fear of speaking.
But it’s too late. The ring is on her finger. The marriage license signed. The vows declared. She’s Mrs. Andrew Thompson now. No escaping.
Tears rise, but she swallows them. Tomorrow, she’ll play happy. For now, she can mourn beneath her wedding dress, soon to be a memory in her wardrobe.
The tears will remain, though. A reminder of the day she chose safety over joy, expectation over her own heart. And of her best friend, whose warning she ignored, whose face she’ll never see again.