The following morning, the house was already bustling before I had finished breakfast.
Several staff members hurried through the hallway carrying garment bags and large boxes.
A team from an exclusive bridal boutique arrived shortly afterward, followed by a photographer’s assistant and two makeup artists.
The sudden activity made the house feel less like Wilder’s usual quiet residence and more like the backstage of an elaborate production.
I looked toward Wilder, who was sitting comfortably on the sofa with his tablet in hand.
“What is happening?”
He didn’t look up immediately.
“Your fitting.”
“My fitting for what?”
That finally made him raise his eyes.
“Your wedding.”
I stared at him for a moment.
Of course.
I had almost forgotten that Wilder intended to turn our fictional marriage into something convincing enough to satisfy everyone around us.
A stylist approached with a polite smile and asked me to follow her.
The fitting room had been prepared with several dresses, each more expensive-looking than the last.
I walked past the first few without much interest until I saw the final dress hanging near the mirror.
I stopped.
The gown was made from smooth ivory silk, elegant without being excessively decorated.
The neckline rested gracefully across the shoulders, while the clean silhouette made the entire design look timeless rather than extravagant.
Something about it felt familiar.
“That one,” I said quietly.
The stylist immediately took it from the rack.
“We thought you would like it.
Sir personally selected the design.”
My eyes moved toward her.
“He selected it?”
“Yes.
He gave us very specific instructions.”
The words sent an uncomfortable chill through me.
I changed into the dress and stepped in front of the mirror.
The moment I saw my reflection, the memory returned.
It wasn’t a memory of Wilder.
It was something much older.
Years ago, I had been interviewed for a small business magazine.
The article had focused on my career, but toward the end, the interviewer had asked an unexpected personal question about marriage and what kind of wedding I would want someday.
I had laughed at the time and answered without giving it much thought.
I had described a simple silk gown with an elegant neckline, something refined rather than covered in elaborate decorations.
I had never expected anyone to remember it.
Apparently, Wilder had.
I slowly ran my fingers over the silk at my waist.
The dress had been made to fit me precisely.
Nothing needed to be altered, and even the stylist seemed surprised by how naturally it settled against my frame.
“This is perfect,” the stylist said.
I didn’t answer.
I stared at myself in the mirror, trying to understand what frightened me more—the fact that Wilder knew my measurements so accurately or the fact that he remembered a passing comment I had made years ago.
This could not have been arranged after the accident.
He would have needed to know me before that.
He had been watching me.
The realization should have made me furious.
Instead, an uncomfortable curiosity settled in my chest.
How long had Wilder been paying attention to me?
And why?
I looked at the woman reflected in the mirror and suddenly felt as though I were standing in front of a door I had no memory of opening.
There was a history between me and Wilder that I hadn’t discovered yet.
And I was beginning to suspect that the story he was telling everyone might contain far more truth than I was prepared to believe.
“Madam?”
I turned toward the stylist and forced a smile.
“I’m fine.”
But as I looked at the wedding dress again, I knew I had just found another piece of the puzzle.
✼ •• ┈┈┈┈๑⋅⋯ ୨˚୧ ⋯⋅๑┈┈┈┈ •• ✼
The photoshoot took place in the garden that afternoon.
Wilder had transformed the normally peaceful space into an extravagant wedding setting.
White flowers lined the pathway, a long table had been arranged beneath a flowering tree, and an elegant arch stood at the center of the garden.
Everything looked carefully planned, down to the smallest decoration.
I couldn’t help wondering how much of it Wilder had arranged himself.
The photographer checked the camera before looking at us.
“All right.
Let’s start with something simple.
Mr.
Reed, stand behind your wife and put your arm around her waist.”
I took my position beside Wilder.
His hand settled around my waist, firm enough to hold me in place but not so tight that I couldn’t move.
I smiled toward the camera while every instinct in me remained focused on the man standing behind me.
“Closer,” the photographer instructed.
“You two look a little stiff.
You’re newlyweds.
Relax.”
I almost laughed at the irony.
Wilder leaned closer.
His voice was low enough that only I could hear it.
“Try to look happy.”
“I am trying.”
“You’re terrible at pretending.”
I kept smiling.
“So are you.”
The photographer raised the camera.
“Beautiful.
I turned my head.
Wilder was already watching me.
For a brief moment, neither of us moved.
The garden, the photographer, and the people working around us seemed to disappear from my attention.
Then the camera flashed.
“Perfect,” the photographer said.
“Now, Mr.
Reed, whisper something romantic to her.”
I felt Wilder lean closer.
I expected some ridiculous declaration of affection.
Instead, his voice reached my ear in a quiet murmur.
“You look very beautiful.”
I almost relaxed.
Then he continued.
“Almost beautiful enough to make me forget how clever you are at lying.”
My smile remained perfectly composed.
So he really knew.
Perhaps he had known from the moment the maid walked into his study.
I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing me shaken.
Instead, I tilted my head slightly, allowing my face to remain close to his while I looked toward the camera with a sweet smile.
“If you’re worried about what I might discover,” I whispered, “you should keep watching me, husband.”
Wilder’s arm tightened slightly around my waist.
I smiled wider.
“Don’t blink.”
The camera flashed again.
“That’s it!” the photographer exclaimed.
“Hold that expression!”
Several more photographs were taken.
On the photographer’s screen, we looked like a couple completely absorbed in each other.
Wilder’s expression was warm and protective, while I looked up at him with an unmistakable softness in my eyes.
Anyone seeing the photographs without knowing the truth would have believed they were looking at two people who had nothing left to hide from each other.
But the reality beneath the picture was entirely different.
My fingers were curled tightly into the fabric of Wilder’s jacket, using the grip to remind myself that I was not going to lose control of the situation.
Wilder kept one arm securely around my waist, his expression never revealing whether he was amused by my defiance or simply waiting for my next move.
The photographer lowered his camera and smiled at the preview.
“That’s the one.
You two look completely in love.”
I glanced at the screen.
For a second, the image unsettled me.
I looked so comfortable beside him that even I could almost believe the illusion.
Then Wilder looked down at me.
Our eyes met.
Neither of us smiled this time.
We both know we’re good at acting.