Now, here she is.
Amara never imagined herself standing in front of a full-length mirror, cloaked in white lace and satin under the warm lights of a designer bridal boutique. She wasn't the little girl who dreamt of a fairytale wedding, nor the woman who collected Pinterest boards of flower arrangements and dress styles. No, that had never been her. She was the type who knew how to fix her own
faucet, who took herself out to dinner when she needed peace, who answered to no one—not even time.
But here she was.
The boutique smelled of fresh linen, soft perfume, and something expensive she couldn't name. Her mother sat like a queen on the plush velvet couch, her eyes sparkling with joy as if all her prayers had just been answered. Beside her, Amara's sister scrolled through her phone but peeked up now and then tosay things like "That one's too poofy" or "Your shoulders look amazing in that."
Amara turned toward the mirror in another gown, this one sleek and minimal with delicate embroidery crawling along the hem. She tilted her head.
"They all look the same to me," she muttered under her breath.
Her mom's voice cut through gently, "They're not the same, hija. This is your moment."
Was it?
It had been a month since she started dating Lorenzo—a loosely defined word that hung in the air between them like mist. Dinners turned into late-night conversations. Silences turned into glances. And before she knew it, the idea of marrying him—fake or not—felt less absurd and more... convenient.
Comfortable, even.
No, she never dreamed of weddings. Not because she didn't believe in them, but because she never saw herself as the bride. She had never envisioned herself walking down the aisle, a veil over her face, a man waiting at the end. It had always felt too staged, too fragile. But now, with every phone call from her parents reminding her of her age, every comment that hinted at her ticking clock, every sigh from her mother—this seemed like a solution. A compromise between rebellion and tradition.
And Lorenzo?
She still wasn't sure if he was a charming devil or a man who just knew how to look at her the right way. But he hadn't lied to her. Not yet. And when he said "We'll get to know each other as we go", it felt oddly honest.
Besides, if it didn't work out, there was always divorce. Easy, clean. Like waking from a dream and slipping right back into her old life.
The boutique door chimed and in walked Lorenzo, cool as ever, in a navy button-up with sleeves rolled just enough to look casual—but rich. He took off his sunglasses and raised a brow at her.
"Wow," he said, stepping closer. "You look like trouble."
Amara narrowed her eyes. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"Oh, definitely," he smirked, circling her like a fashion critic. "You're glowing. Or is that just the boutique lighting?"
She fought back a laugh. "You're just saying that because all these dresses look the same to me."
He leaned in, voice low, playful. "They are all the same. White, frilly, and expensive. But you? You wear them like armor."
She blinked. That was surprisingly... sweet.
Her mother stood, thrilled to see Lorenzo there, and began fussing about which gown made Amara look more like a Garcia. He played along effortlessly, nodding, teasing, making jokes about needing sunglasses because she was "blindingly stunning". Amara just rolled her eyes, but she couldn't hide the corners of her mouth tugging into a grin.
As another dress was brought out, she caught a glimpse of herself again in the mirror. Still Amara. Still independent. Still unsure. But maybe—just maybe—fitting into forever didn't mean giving up who she was.
Especially when she knew how to step out of it if she ever needed to.