Page 72 of An Eye For Illusion

I loathe it, but I can’t tell him that. I’ve hated every dress I’ve put on, and it isn’t because they aren’t gorgeous or flattering. No, I hate them because every time I look in the mirror, I picture myself walking down the aisle toward Elliott.

My stomach rolls at the mere thought, which makes picking out a wedding dress ridiculously fucking hard.

I plaster on a fake smile and shrug. “I don’t know. I just don’t have that feeling, you know?”

“You’ve said that about the last twenty dresses. Maybe you just aren’t the kind of girl to fall in love with a dress?” His tone is so nonchalant that I know he means nothing by it, but his question is like a punch to the gut.

I start to wonder if I’m broken because all I’ve felt the whole day is numbness and anger. A large part is because Elliott isn’t the man I want to marry, but I thought I’d at least like some of the dresses. That I would feel pretty.

Bridge gave me a pep talk this morning about trying to enjoy the day and have fun trying on lavish dresses with an endless flow of champagne and chocolate. I wanted so badly to do just that, to make this day bearable, but my father’s remark is a stark reminder that I’ve failed miserably.

“Maybe I’m not,” I whisper as I do another spin in the chic A-line silk dress.

The train is long, but the show stopping part is the plunging back. Under normal circumstances, I think I’d love it. However, that might not be the case if I’m as broken as I suspect.

Bridge cuts a look over at my father before turning back to me. “That’s nonsense. You will have that feeling. We just haven’t found the one yet.” I adore her for trying to brighten the mood.

I turn and look at the back of the dress in the mirror one more time. It’s pretty, but I feel nothing but a vast void of emotion toward the beautiful material.

The poor sales consultant looks completely lost on how to help me or what dress to pull next as she guides me off the runway. “How about we go back to the dressing room and regroup?”

Regroup? How about just calling this a loss and cutting me loose? I wouldn’t blame her one bit. We’ve already been here for well over two hours, and we aren’t any closer to nailing down a style of dress as we were when I first walked in. If I were her, I would fire me.

“The wedding is just around the corner, sweetheart,” Dad pipes up.

Oh, I know. You don’t have to remind me yet again.

“Mmhmm,” is all I say as I quickly walk back to the changing room and throw myself inside. I collapse on the chair in the corner, and the overwhelming urge to run or scream overtakes me.

I stand and frantically try to escape from the beautiful but suffocating dress. I want it off, and I want it off right this moment because it feels like the walls of the small changing room are closing in on me.

My breaths speed up, and my skin heats to an uncomfortable temperature.

“Forgive me, Ms. Foster. Do you need me to help you?” Lydia, the kind woman who’s been helping me all morning, asks as she comes in the room.

“I need you to get me the fuck out of this thing!”

She startles at my tone and the desperation that must be apparent on my face. “Yes. Yes, of course. Let me see.”

She quickly releases the button at the bottom of the plunging back and lowers the small zipper so I can slide it past my ass. I waste no time stepping out of it as I try to calm myself.

“Jade, are you okay?”

I turn around to see Bridge in the doorway with concern and sadness in her eyes. The look on her face is the tipping point. Water collects in the corner of my eyes, and I blink furiously to keep them from spilling over.

“Oh, babe.”

“Don’t ‘oh, babe’ me. I’m fine. Everything is fine. I just need a minute,” I bite out.

I refuse to fucking cry. Not here, and not over Elliott Moore. I won’t do it.

Bridge smiles pleasantly at Lydia. “Can you give us just a moment? Maybe take Mr. Foster another scotch and tell him we’ll be right out?”

“Of course. Please let me know if you need anything,” Lydia says before stepping out of the room and closing the door softly behind her.

“What’s wrong?” Bridge asks.

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong! Everything is wrong. Nothing feels right. That’s the problem.”

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