The subtle shimmer of my dress and the soft caress of the expensive fabric weren’t enough to put a smile on my face as I stared into the mirror.
In fact, they only made me feel more like an imposter. Since my whirlwind marriage to Miles Hawthorne, my life had turned upside down, and I wasn’t sure if it would ever go back to normal.
Reaching to grab my shoes, I winced, my ribs protesting the movement. It had been a week since my fall from the horse, but the bruises on my body–much like the ones on my pride–were taking their time to heal.
With a deep inhale, I straightened, still questioning the dress. Miles’s mother had insisted it was the perfect dress, but no amount of couture could mask the cracks forming in the carefully crafted lie Miles and I had created.
As I slipped into the shoes, my phone chimed. I almost shuddered, an involuntary reaction to the noise that usually indicated something unwanted.
That particular notification meant I had a text waiting, and I could almost guess who it was from.
I didn’t want to deal with it. Not before this gala. My stomach was already twisted into a tight enough knot that I didn’t need any added stress.
But I couldn’t stop myself from grabbing the device and swiping it open. I pressed a hand against my abdomen as I read the message, my nose crinkling.
