2
Perhaps it was because the air conditioning in the dressing room was too strong, but the more I thought about it, the colder I felt to my bones.
Alexander reached out to hold my hand, but I shook him off.
I looked up at him steadily: “Bring the wedding dress back. I don’t want her to wear it.”
Alexander frowned: “Stop making a fuss, Amelia. It’s just a ceremony. We can have another one anytime.”
His downturned lips and the irritation in his eyes hurt me.
I said, “Fine, let the wedding dress go. But if she wants to hold a wedding ceremony, does the groom have to be you?”
Was it her being unreasonable and making demands because of her serious illness, or were you already drifting in our relationship and just taking the easy way out?
Perhaps because I had exposed him, hitting a nerve, his face turned ugly.
Alexander let go of me and walked towards the door, throwing words back at me.
“Dating you has become so tiresome. You never consider my face, always making a scene until everyone looks bad.”
Am I the one not considering his face?
Am I the one making unreasonable demands?
The sound of the door locking brought me back to reality.
4:20 PM
<
I picked up my skirt and banged on the door hard: “I don’t agree. The wedding I’ve been carefully preparing and looking forward to for so long is not just a ceremony…”
Through the door, his impatient voice rang out.
“Can’t you be less cold–hearted? She’s dying. What’s wrong with letting her have this moment?”
She’s dying.
Just because she’s sick, I’ve been tolerating so much for years, and now I have to give up my own wedding and husband.
But am I the one who made her sick?
I gripped the doorknob and calmed down: “Alexander, think carefully. Don’t regret this.”
There was a pause in the voice outside the door, then the sound of determined footsteps fading away.
I slid down to the floor, hugging the exaggerated skirt, feeling completely empty inside.
She really ruined my wedding.
Sophia had done it.
The phone on the makeup table started ringing urgently.
It was a call from my parents.
Before I could answer, the call ended.
The dressing room was right behind the main hall, separated by just a door. I could clearly hear the commotion from the hall, exclamations of
shock and unrest.
Then, guided by the officiant, there was applause.
Sophia’s account sent me another video.
The camera was pointed at the big screen, where all the pre–wedding photos of Alexander and me that we had put so much effort into had been Al–replaced with Sophia’s face.
All those days of enduring the hot sun for makeup, the aching backs and feet, the hours of adjusting poses for aesthetics, had all become Sophia’s trousseau.
This made me even angrier than Alexander’s words.
Even though I was shaking with anger, my hand still opened the next video.
In the video, she was walking towards Alexander, step by step under the spotlight.
In the shadows behind her, my parents were looking around for me with upset expressions, but were being held back by two security guards.
Seeing this, I finally couldn’t hold back my tears, which fell drop by drop onto my parents‘ faces on the phone screen.
I had chosen the wrong person. Why did I have to involve my parents in this humiliation along with me?
didn’t watch the rest of the videos.
In the midst of the excitement on the other side of the wall, my mind gradually cleared:
After studying myself in the mirror for a long time, I took off the ill–fitting wedding dress, removed my makeup, and changed back into my previous clothes.
I could only feel grateful.
At least I had seen clearly before getting the marriage certificate.
