Damien
The wedding preparations rolled by in a blur, and I barely got a chance to speak, or even breathe around Serena.
Everywhere I turned, there were people bustling about, making notes, moving samples of fabrics, flowers, and endless trays of hors d'oeuvres.
The house felt like a factory for perfection and I hated it. The noise, the false laughter, the pretense of unity.
But what I hated even more was the way Serena carried herself through it all. Calm, detached, untouchable. She was polite with the planners, charming with the decorators, patient with everyone except me.
And me? I was left standing somewhere on the edge of it all, watching her slip further and further out of reach.
We had to go meet the event planner again that morning—a woman named Marjorie who spoke in soft tones but had the organizational ruthlessness of a military general.
She'd called, insisting we finalize a few "delicate matters" that apparently couldn't wait another hour.
