THE FAT BRIDE HE NEVER WANTED

Naomi's POV

Nobody told me the flowers would be real.

That was the first thing I noticed when they pushed me through the side door of Saint Bridget's Cathedral... the roses lining the aisle were fresh, white and very, very real. Not plastic. Not silk. Real roses with real thorns and real petals already dropping onto real marble floors.

My second thought was that the music was also real.

And the guests. And the priest. And the seven-tiered cake visible through the open reception doors.

And the man standing at the altar.

Oh no.

"Walk," the woman behind me hissed, giving me a sharp nudge between my shoulder blades. That was Mrs. Patel, the coordinator who'd hired me four days ago through a very vague job listing that said, and I quote, “Bride stand-in needed for private rehearsal. Good pay. No questions."

I had asked zero questions because the pay was three months of my rent.

I was asking all the questions now.

"This doesn't look like a rehearsal," I whispered through my teeth without moving my lips, the way a person learns to do when they've spent a lifetime trying not to draw attention to themselves.

"Walk," Mrs. Patel repeated.

So I walked.

The veil was thick enough that I could pretend the guests weren't staring. I focused on the aisle, on putting one foot in front of the other in heels that were half a size too small and a dress that had been pinned at the back because it couldn't fully zip over my hips.

Story of my life, honestly.

The man at the altar still hadn't looked at me. He stood with his back straight and his hands clasped and his jaw set in the kind of hard, clean lines that belonged on magazine covers, not wedding altars. Dark suit. Dark hair. The kind of tall that made you feel the room shrink around him.

He was looking somewhere just above my head, like he was waiting for something entirely different to arrive.

I was about five steps away when the cathedral doors at the back slammed open.

The music screeched to a stop.

Every single head in the building swiveled.

A woman stood in the doorway with her chest heaving and her hair half-fallen and one shoe missing. She looked like she'd run a full marathon in a cocktail dress.

Her eyes found me at the altar and she screamed.

"STOP! SHE'S NOT THE BRIDE!"

The entire cathedral erupted.

Guests shot to their feet. Someone knocked over a flower arrangement. A child started crying. Two ushers rushed toward the woman and she fought them both off with her handbag, still screaming.

I stood frozen at the altar with the bouquet trembling in both hands and my brain completely refusing to process what was happening.

The man beside me finally looked at me.

Not at my veil. At me.

Golden brown eyes, sharp as a blade and absolutely furious.

He said nothing. He didn't have to.

Who are you was written all over his face.

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Then an elderly man in the front pew rose slowly from his seat. He didn't shout. He didn't even raise his voice. He simply adjusted his cufflinks and spoke in the tone of a man who had never once been contradicted.

"The wedding continues."

Dead silence.

Even the woman in the doorway stopped screaming.

The priest blinked, looked at the elderly man, looked at the groom and then looked at me with what I can only describe as a deeply apologetic expression.

He cleared his throat.

The pianist began playing again with slightly shaking hands.

I faced forward. The groom faced forward.

Neither of us moved.

"Do you have any idea what's happening?" I whispered from the corner of my mouth.

"No," he said flatly. "Do you?"

"I was told this was a rehearsal."

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

"It is not a rehearsal."

"I gathered that."

The priest was talking. The vows were happening. Words washed over me like water and I stood there in pinned dress and too-small heels, holding fake flowers in the middle of what was apparently a completely real wedding, thinking about how I really should have asked more questions before accepting that envelope of cash.

Then the priest smiled at the groom.

"You may kiss your bride."

Neither of us moved for a full three seconds.

Then the groom leaned in slowly, just enough that his lips brushed the edge of my cheek, not quite a kiss and not quite nothing. His mouth stopped at my ear instead, his voice dropping so low only I could hear it.

"Whoever you are…"

A pause.

"This marriage ends tomorrow."