In the beginning, I found those gestures incredibly sweet. Only much later did I recognize them for what they truly were—early warnings of a man who needed to feel indispensable while maintaining absolute control behind the scenes.
The morning before the wedding, our kitchen table was buried under a chaotic collage of fabric swatches, floral catalogs, and half-empty coffee cups. Mother sat at the counter sipping her traditional chicory coffee, the Louisiana humidity hanging thick in the air alongside the heavy anticipation of Saturday’s ceremony.
Lacey lounged nearby, scrolling mindlessly on her phone and humming that familiar, irritatingly innocent tune she always adopted whenever she was plotting behind closed doors.
“White roses? Again?” she asked lazily without lifting her gaze.
“They’re a classic choice,” I replied with a soft sigh.
“They’re boring, Hannah.”
Mother chuckled from her stool. “Lacey, you could turn an absolute blessing into a formal complaint.”
Lacey rested her chin on her palm, fixing me with a cold, unsettling intensity. “I just mean, if you are genuinely marrying the love of your life, shouldn’t the aesthetic be a bit more exciting than beige?” She emphasized the phrase love of your life with an odd, biting sarcasm that sent a brief chill down my spine.
I rolled my eyes. “You sound like a Pinterest board with a severe hangover.”
Just then, Ethan pushed through the screen door carrying a heavy wooden crate of reception decorations. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, his dark hair slightly damp from the heavy outdoor humidity.
