Before the wedding

Isabella

Dragging my overstuffed suitcase through the marble-floored hallway, I felt every ounce of its weight as it clattered over the polished surface. The grandeur of the Sinclair mansion was overwhelming, and I’d barely scratched the surface. Towering ceilings adorned with crystal chandeliers, walls lined with expensive artwork that screamed “old money,” and a staircase so grand it looked like it belonged in a period drama—it was all too much. I knew the Sinclairs were rich, but this mansion was the kind of place that made you realize there was rich, and then there was loaded.

The guest room assigned to me was nothing short of spectacular. Floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the space in soft light, and the view of the perfectly manicured gardens outside made me feel like I’d stepped into a painting. A massive canopy bed, dressed in plush linens and too many pillows, stood in the center. Gilded furniture and a faint lavender scent gave the room a sense of effortless luxury.

I hoved the suitcase onto the floor, finally free of its burden, and collapsed onto the bed with a dramatic sigh. The mattress was the kind of soft that made you want to sink in and never leave. For a moment, I thought about how nice it would be to stay here forever, away from the chaos outside these walls. But my relief didn’t last long.

The sound of heels clicking against the marble floor signaled my mom’s arrival. The door burst open, and in she came—glamorous as ever—flanked by a small army of stylists and assistants. It was like a scene out of a reality show, except I was the unwilling star.

“Isabella, darling, there you are!” She announced, as though I’d been lost for days instead of just unpacking for twenty minutes.

Behind her, a stylist carried a garment bag, which she unzipped to reveal a stunning designer gown. The fabric shimmered like liquid gold, catching the light in a way that screamed couture.

“This,” my mom declared, holding the dress out like it was the Holy Grail, “is what you’ll wear tonight. It’s from Enzo Calvetti’s latest collection. You’ll look divine."

I sat up, already dreading where this conversation was headed. “Mom, I already have a dress,” I said, gesturing toward the suitcase. I knelt, unzipping it to reveal the dress I’d picked out—a simple yet elegant number in navy blue. I’d spent hours hunting for it, and it was exactly what I wanted: understated but classy.

Her perfectly shaped eyebrows arched as she looked at it, her lips pursed in disapproval.

"That?" she said, pointing at my dress like it was a crime against fashion. “Isabella, be serious. That looks like something from last season’s clearance rack. This is a wedding. You can’t just wear anything."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “Mom, I like this dress. It’s comfortable, and it’s me."

“And this one isn’t?” she asked, holding up the gold gown again.

"It's... lovely,” I said carefully, “but it’s not me. It’s you."

Her expression hardened. “Isabella, you cannot attend this wedding dressed like you’re going to a corporate event. This is a Sinclair wedding. People will notice what you wear. You’ll wear this dress, and that’s final."

I looked at the gown, then back at my mom, who stood there with her entourage, arms crossed and waiting for me to capitulate. It wasn’t just about the dress, and we both knew it. This was her way of making sure I fit into the Sinclair world—a world she’d spent years trying to belong to herself.

For a moment, I considered fighting her on it, insisting that I wear the dress I had chosen. But then I sighed, knowing it wasn’t worth the argument. “Fine,” I said, my tone clipped. “I’ll wear the dress."

“Good girl,” she said with a satisfied smile, snapping her fingers to her stylists. “Now, let’s get started. We have work to do."

As they descended on me with makeup brushes and curling irons, I glanced at my navy blue dress lying abandoned on the bed.

*******************************************

Logan

The garden was buzzing with pre-wedding energy. The sprawling estate had been transformed into a storybook setting, complete with twinkling fairy lights, floral arrangements that probably cost more than my car, and uniformed servers carrying trays of appetizers that looked like edible art.

I had nothing to do for the next hour except exist as “Logan Sinclair, Best Man, and Obligatory Wedding Accessory.” So, I did what any self-respecting Sinclair would do: I wandered over to the appetizer station to graze.

One bite of the mini crab cake was all it took to remind me why I didn’t mind these events. The food was spectacular. I was halfway through sampling a truffle-stuffed mushroom when I heard a familiar voice behind me.

“Logan!”

I turned to see Trent, my old school friend, weaving through the crowd with his easy grin and a glass of champagne. We hadn’t seen each other in months, but it was the kind of friendship where you could pick up right where you left off.

“Trent, you made it,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he replied, scanning the elegant crowd. “Your family sure knows how to throw a party. What’s next, a fireworks show?"

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” I said with a laugh. “They’ve got a thing for spectacle."

As we chatted, I kept my eyes on the crowd, half listening to Trent recount his latest escapades in New York. Then he suddenly stopped mid-sentence, his eyes wide.

“Who is that?"

His tone was laced with awe, and I turned to follow his gaze. My breath caught the moment I saw her.

Isabella.

She stepped into the garden like she’d descended from a painting. The gold gown shimmered in the evening light, hugging her frame in a way that was elegant but not overdone. The soft waves of her dark hair framed her face, and her lips curled into a polite smile as she scanned the crowd. She was breathtaking.

I wasn’t the kind of guy who got “distracted” easily. I’d been around beautiful women all my life, and I’d never had trouble keeping my cool. But Isabella carried herself like she didn’t quite belong here but wasn’t about to let anyone know it.

“That’s Isabella,” I said finally, my voice quieter than I intended.

"Isabella, who?"

"Isabella Munroe," I said automatically.

Unable to take my eyes off her.

“She’s stunning,” Trent said, clearly impressed. "Wait, did you say Isabella Munroe? That nerd from high school?"

“Yeah,” I murmured, almost to myself.