Chapter 3: The White Lace Cold War

If there is a circle of hell dedicated specifically to "uncomfortable social situations," it looks exactly like the interior of L’Aube Wedding Atelier. The walls were a clinical, blinding white, the air smelled faintly of expensive lavender, and the champagne was being poured at a rate that suggested everyone involved knew I needed to be medicated to get through this.

"A-line is too safe," my mother, Elena, declared, tossing a silk swatch aside like it was a piece of trash. "Juliel has the shoulders for a sweetheart neckline. We need drama! We need 'I’m-marrying-a-Scott' energy!"

Beatrice Scott, sitting on a velvet ottoman with the posture of a Victorian queen, sipped her mimosa. "While I appreciate the enthusiasm, Elena, the Scott family aesthetic is 'understated elegance.' We don’t do 'drama.' We do timelessness. A high collar, perhaps. Something Grace Kelly-esque."

I stood on a circular pedestal in my underwear, feeling like a highly confused mannequin. Renzo was supposed to be at his office "finishing a landscape proposal," but in reality, we were texting under the pedestal’s shadow.

Me: Help. They are fighting over my neckline. Your mother wants me to look like a nun. My mother wants me to look like a pop star.

Renzo: My mother once made a gardener replant an entire row of hedges because they were ‘too aggressive.’ Godspeed, Juliel. I’m currently being interrogated by my father about our ‘investment strategy’ as a couple.

Me: Tell him we invest in crypto and magic beans. Anything to make him lose interest.

Renzo: He’d probably believe the beans. He thinks I’m impulsive anyway. Hence the ‘Tequila Proposal.’

"Juliel! Stop staring at your phone!" Aunt Maria barked, snapping her fingers. "The consultant is bringing the first gown. Deep breaths, mija. This is the dress you’ll be wearing when you say 'I do' to the man of your dreams."

The "man of my dreams" was currently hiding in a nursery, but I couldn't say that.

The consultant, a woman named Genevieve who looked like she hadn't eaten a carb since 2012, slid a heavy, beaded gown over my head. It weighed approximately forty pounds. As she zipped me in, I felt the structural boning of the corset dig into my ribs.

"I can't breathe," I wheezed.

"Beauty is a struggle, darling," Genevieve whispered, pulling the laces tighter.

I stepped out from behind the curtain. The collective gasp from the three women was deafening.

"Oh, Juliel," my mother whispered, her eyes filling with tears. "You look... expensive."

"She looks like a Scott," Beatrice conceded, which I assumed was the highest compliment in her vocabulary.

I looked at myself in the three-way mirror. I didn't see a bride. I saw a librarian wearing a fortress of lace and tulle. I looked like I was being consumed by a giant, expensive marshmallow.

Then, the door to the atelier chimed.

I expected a delivery man. I expected a stray dog. I did not expect Gray Flores to walk in with a camera crew and a bouquet of black roses.

"Stop! Stop right there!" Gray shouted, gesturing for his cameraman to get a close-up of my shocked face. "The fans need to see this! The 'Tragic Bride' in her ivory tower!"

"Gray!" I yelled, trying to step off the pedestal, but the forty-pound dress made me lose my balance. I swayed dangerously before Genevieve caught me. "How did you find us? This is a private fitting!"

"Your Aunt Maria posted the location on her Feisbook 'Check-In,'" Gray smirked, checking his lighting on the monitor. "Thanks, Maria. Great engagement on that post, by the way. Very 'wholesome aunt' vibes."

Aunt Maria looked sheepish. "He said he wanted to send a gift!"

"I’m here for the 'Final Farewell' segment," Gray announced to the room, ignoring the murderous glare from Beatrice Scott. "Juliel, look at the camera. Tell the followers... are you really happy? Or is this dress just a shroud for your dead feelings for me?"

"You are a very small, very annoying man," Beatrice said, standing up. Her voice was like a glacier cracking. "Security will be here in two minutes. If you are still in this building, I will ensure your 'brand' is associated with a multi-million dollar harassment suit."

Gray didn't blink. "Hey, fans! Look at the 'Evil Mother-in-Law' trope in the wild! So toxic!"

I’d had enough. The corset was cutting off my oxygen, the lace was itchy, and the man who had treated our three-year relationship like a content-farm was currently monetizing my wedding dress.

"Gray," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "If you don't leave, I am going to walk over there—in this very expensive dress—and I am going to swallow your microphone. Then I’m going to call your agent and tell him you leaked the 'confidential' project you're working on."

Gray paused. "I don't have a confidential project."

"The fans don't know that," I countered. "Now get out."

He scoffed, adjusted his hair, and signaled his cameraman. "Fine. We’ve got the shot anyway. 'Librarian Bride loses her cool.' It’s going to trend by sunset."

As he swustled out, the room fell into a heavy, awkward silence.

"Is he always like that?" Beatrice asked, looking at me with something that resembled—for the first time—pity.

"Every single day," I sighed.

"Well," Beatrice said, smoothing her skirt. "In that case, we need a better dress. Something he can't mock. And we need to move the Engagement Gala up to this Saturday. We need to show the world that the Scotts and the Cortezs are a united front."

"Saturday?" I squeaked. "That’s in two days!"

"Plenty of time," Beatrice said, picking up her phone. "If one has the right connections."

That evening, I met Renzo at a quiet park he’d designed. It was a sunken garden with stone benches and a weeping willow that draped over a small pond. It was peaceful—the exact opposite of my life.

"I heard about the dress shop," Renzo said, handing me a carton of takeout noodles. "My mother called me. She said you 'handled the barbarian with surprising grit.'"

"I almost fainted, Renzo. Whether from the corset or the rage, I’m not sure." I took a bite of the noodles. "And now there’s a gala. On Saturday. We have to debut as a couple in front of your parents’ entire social circle."

Renzo sat back, looking up at the willow trees. "My dad is already bragging about my 'decisiveness.' He thinks I’ve finally grown up because I 'claimed' a woman instead of drifting through life. If I tell him the truth at the gala... I don't just lose my inheritance, Juliel. I lose the chance to ever be taken seriously by him again."

"And if I tell my mom," I added, "she’ll be heartbroken. She’s already bought a 'Mother of the Bride' dress that sparkles so much it can be seen from space. She hasn't been this happy since I graduated college."

We sat in the fading twilight, two people bound together by the fear of disappointing the people we loved.

"We have to make the gala perfect," Renzo said. "We have to be so convincing that even Roxy and Gray give up. We need a 'love story'—a real one. Not the 'eight-month slow burn' lie. We need details."

"Okay," I said, leaning in. "Where did we have our first real date?"

"The Botanical Gardens," Renzo said instantly. "Section 4G. The rare orchids. You were wearing a yellow dress and you corrected me on the Latin name of a fern."

I smiled. "I would totally do that. And what was the first thing you liked about me?"

Renzo looked at me then. The sun was setting, casting a golden-orange glow over his face. The ruggedness of his jawline seemed softer in the light.

"Your silence," he said quietly. "In a world where everyone is shouting for attention—like Gray, or Roxy, or even my parents—you just... exist. You’re like a quiet library in the middle of a riot. I liked that immediately."

My heart did a strange, fluttering thing that definitely wasn't in the script. I cleared my throat, looking back at my noodles.

"Right. Good. Very believable," I muttered. "And I liked... I liked your hands. They look like they actually build things. They aren't 'influencer' hands that only know how to hold a phone."

Renzo looked at his hands, then back at me. "We’re getting good at this."

"Too good," I whispered. "Renzo, what happens in three weeks? When we reach the altar? The 'irreconcilable differences' excuse... it’s going to hurt them. A lot."

Renzo reached out and briefly touched my hand. "We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. For now, we just have to survive the gala. Can you dance?"

"I’m a librarian. I can categorize books in the dark, but I have the grace of a newborn giraffe."

"I’ll teach you," he said, standing up and offering his hand. "No cameras. No exes. Just us. Practice for the performance of a lifetime."

Saturday arrived with the force of a hurricane. The Scott Estate was transformed into a wonderland of fairy lights and white roses. Hundreds of people in black-tie attire milled about the marble foyer, sipping champagne and whispering about the "Viral Couple."

I stood in the wings of the grand ballroom, wearing a sleek, midnight-blue gown that Beatrice had "approved" at the last minute. It wasn't the marshmallow dress. It was sophisticated, daring, and made me feel like a stranger to myself.

"You look..." Renzo appeared beside me, wearing a tuxedo that fit him so well it should have been illegal. He stopped, his eyes scanning me from head to toe. "...you look incredible, Juliel."

"I feel like an imposter," I whispered, clutching my clutch bag.

"Me too," he admitted, adjusting his cufflinks. "But look at them."

He pointed to the crowd. My parents were laughing with his parents. They were sharing photos on their phones, looking like old friends. Gray was nowhere to be seen—security had been briefed—and Roxy was reportedly out of town on a 'corporate retreat' (though we suspected she was actually just sulking).

"We’re giving them what they want," Renzo said. "A fairy tale."

The band began to play a slow, sweeping waltz.

"Ready?" Renzo asked, holding out his arm.

"No," I said, taking it anyway. "But let’s go give them a show."

We stepped into the light. The room went quiet for a heartbeat before erupting into applause. As Renzo led me to the center of the dance floor, I realized something terrifying.

As his hand rested on the small of my back and he pulled me into the rhythm of the music, I wasn't thinking about the exes. I wasn't thinking about the viral video.

I was thinking that for a "fake" fiancé, Renzo Scott felt very, very real.

And as we spun under the crystal chandeliers, I saw a familiar flash in the corner of my eye. Not a camera—but the look on Beatrice Scott’s face. She wasn't looking at the "brand." She was looking at her son. And she was smiling.

We were digging a hole so deep we might never get out.