Michaela
Ipray to God the pageant smile frozen on my lips fools everybody. I’m
going to be sick. I’m going to be sick. I’m going to be sick. I’m this
close to throwing up. Cold sweat prickles down my back even though
it’s another beautiful, sunny California day. My throat is parched, as if
I’ve been wandering in the desert for days. My stomach is in knots and
my skin burns with awareness. The butterflies that have been fluttering
away in my stomach since walking down the aisle hanging from my
father’s arm are now engaged in the type of wild dance that could ward
off evil spirits. I’m terrified. I’ve long stopped hearing the priest’s
monotone voice. I’m trapped inside the confinement of my head. I got
this. I can do this. I knew this day was coming. I woke up with the full
understanding there was no safety net. I either jump or run. As tempting
as it was to become a runaway bride and make headlines, I decided
against it. So, here I am. Dear God, I’m really getting married. As I
stand in front of God, my dad, Uncle Ian, Keira, Rhys, and all the
people from Phoenix’s side, I become keenly aware of the vows I just
took. The second Phoenix slipped the wedding band on my finger, a
violent wave of nausea threatened to shoot out of me like a projectile.
The weight of all
those perfect, shimmery diamonds on my finger is as heavy as a prison
sentence. And then there are all those eyes shining with hope,
witnessing this sham of a wedding. The end justifies the means.
Phoenix cocks a brow, concern evident in his eyes. I give him a tight
nod in response, my pageant smile still firmly in place. He squeezes my
hand before bringing it up to his lips, kissing it with tenderness. He
knows I’m bullshitting. His action elicits a round of chuckles from the
crowd. The priest clears his throat and adjusts his glasses. He’s not
amused. We must have broken a religious protocol or something.
“Sorry,” Phoenix says to the priest. For the first time since slipping into
this outrageously expensive designer white gown, I smile. A real smile.
The priest carries on. Phoenix winks and I respond with another genuine
smile. Even in my sheer terror, I must admit the man is drop dead
gorgeous in his bespoke black tux. He’s something else in a suit, but the
tuxedo takes the conc ept of suit porn to unprecedented levels of hotness.
Under the bright LA sun, the hazel tones in his eyes turn into a
seductive and enchanting kaleidoscopic range of colors, making the
blue in his irises stand out. My fake husband is a glorious package.
“You may kiss your bride.” I turn around and hand my best friend the
beautiful bouquet of blush pink roses I’ve been holding onto for dear
life. Keira offers me a warm smile. I attempt to return it, but fail. The
priest’s words come crashing through my consciousness like a wrecking
ball. Oh God. This is it. It’s official. I’m a wife.
Ball and chain for one full year. I turn to face the near stranger I’ll call
husband until the terms of our contract expire. Phoenix flashes me a
dazzling smile that takes my breath away. He cups my face and stares
into my eyes for a few long seconds. “You’re all mine now, Mrs.
König,” he says. “And I get to kiss my wife.” I’m taken aback by the
sincerity in his declaration, unsure if it’s an act or not. I don’t have time
to overthink it. Phoenix brings his lips to mine and kisses me. It’s
nothing inappropriate, but it’s still enough to consume every part of my
body. It’s a dizzying feeling and one I could get used to. The thought
terrifies me. Get it into your head. Three hundred and sixty-five days
left...