Chapter 2 The Wedding

I pulled up late at the wedding on purpose.

Because what kind of entrance is it if everyone is already settled and comfortable? No. I like to walk in when the air is already thick with perfume and gossip, so I can slice right through it.

The ballroom was wine. Literally wine everywhere. Martha chose wine as the color of the day — wine drapes, wine bridesmaids, wine flowers that I know for a fact she cannot name. And it's cute. It's simple. It's very... Martha.

I wore wine too. But not her wine.

Mine was wine with a sin. Wine kissed with pink.

You remember that dress? The one I got from Elena on that trip to Milan three years ago? Not Kalvin Clane. Elena. I met her at that tiny atelier off Via Montenapoleone, she was hand-sewing beads onto silk like she was praying. I told her, "One day you're going to dress me when I need to ruin someone's day politely." And girl, today was that day.

The dress was sculpted, short, beaded — but not noisy beads. Expensive beads. The kind that catch light only when you move. So every step I took, it was like blink, blink, blink. Wine base, pink undertone that only shows under the chandelier. My skin was glass. My makeup was soft glam exactly how I planned it — lashes, lip glossed, edges laid to the heavens. I left my G-Wagon outside with the driver holding the door open just long enough for everyone by the entrance to turn.

And they turned.

Diary, I swear to you, the music didn't stop but the conversation did. That's the power I hold and I don't even try anymore.

A house full of celebrities. Like, actual celebrities. Models, actors, that one influencer who thinks she's a model — and still, all eyes were on me. I felt it on my back, on my neck, on the slit of my dress. The stare. That heavy, hungry stare that says "I want to be her" and "I hate her" at the same time.

I pretended not to see anyone. I do it best. Chin up, soft smile, walk like the floor was made for me. Which it was.

But then of course, mother found me before I could even get to the bar.

"Gloria! What took you so long? I've been calling you for ages!" She had that tight smile. You know the one. The one that says you're embarrassing me but I can't yell because people are watching.

I looked at her. Slowly.

"Mom. Calm down," I said. "A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. Do you think if I'd been here ten minutes ago I'd be looking like THIS?"

She did that eye scan. Head to toe. Mother to manager in 0.2 seconds.

She leaned in, whispering so only I could hear, "Gloria, I don't need you shining too much. Just let Martha enjoy today, okay?"

I rolled my eyes so hard I saw my own past life.

She doesn't deserve to enjoy today, I thought. But what I said was, "Of course, mummy. It's Martha's day."

Then I floated away from her. Greeted a few guests. Kissed cheeks. "Oh my God, you look amazing!" "Love you too, darling!" Smiled like my world is made of roses. Like we practiced.

And then I sat. My spot. Center table, but not too center. Legs crossed, back straight, ordered my favorite wine. The waiter already knows me.

I sipped. Slowly.

And let them fall in love.

Okay diary, let's get into what my eyes actually SAW, because my God — the delusion was decorated.

The ballroom? Gorgeous. I'll give it to her. Martha actually tried. Wine-colored drapes falling from the ceiling like they were trying to be couture, round tables with too many flowers, and lights dimmed low enough to hide cheap makeup. Which was necessary, because half the guests looked like they got ready in traffic.

The music was a live band — you know those bands that play every wedding in New York? One sax guy sweating through his suit, one lady singing Alicia Keys like Alicia owes her money. It was giving "we had budget but not THAT budget."

And the guests? Oh diary, a full circus. Girls in wine dresses that did NOT fit. Like, baby, if the zipper is screaming, you should listen. Men in suits that haven't seen dry cleaning since 2022. And everyone acting famous. Everyone acting booked and busy. Phones out, posing by the flower wall that Martha definitely saw on Pinterest and said "I want exactly that."

But the real show? The mothers.

Martha's mother was running around like she was nominated for an Oscar for Best Mother of The Bride. Shouting "My daughter! My daughter is married!" to anyone with ears. Clipboard in hand, headset that wasn't connected to anything. Pure performance.

And MY mother — Sarah Gilbert — right beside her, acting like it was HER daughter getting married. My mother! Arm in arm with Martha's mom, hugging guests like "Welcome to OUR wedding." Girl, YOUR daughter is the single one in the corner sipping wine like it's holy water. Remember her? Me?

I sat there. In my glorious tone, legs crossed, watching it all. Cataloging. Judging. Smiling.

That's when it happened.

A tug.

I looked down. There's a child. Like, a full toddler. Maybe three? Hair that has never met a brush, face sticky with what I pray was juice, wearing a tiny wine suit that was too big for him. He was looking up at me with those big, watery eyes and that open-mouth smile that kids do when they think they're cute.

He was pulling my dress. MY dress. Elena's beads. Pulling it like it was a curtain.

I looked around fast. Nobody watching? Good.

I leaned down, smile still frozen for the public, and whispered through my teeth, "Go away, you little menace."

He just giggled. Louder. And pulled harder. And then, I swear — he said "Mommy!"

Mommy? MOMMY?!

I almost choked on my wine.

I leaned in again, still checking left and right to make sure no phone was recording. I made my face as ugly as I could — scrunched nose, crossed eyes, the face I would never let a camera see — trying to scare him.

He laughed even harder. Like I was doing comedy.

I was smiling at a table of aunties who were almost watching, waving like "haha, kids right?" while hissing under my breath, "I am NOT your mommy. Go find your mommy. Shoo."

He did not shoo. He stayed. Pulling, smiling, now trying to climb my leg.

I swear I was about to get up and walk away from my own table when his mother finally appeared — out of breath, wine-stained, same sticky face.

"Oh my God! I'm so sorry! He's obsessed with pretty ladies!" she said, scooping him up.

And I switched. Instantly. Model mode ON.

"It's okay! It's so cute!" I said, touching his cheek with two fingers. My hand was literally burning. Like, why are children always so HOT and sticky? I smiled so wide my cheeks hurt.

She carried him away and I wiped my hand under the table with my napkin like my life depended on it.

God. I don't hate children. I just... don't like them near my dresses. Or my aura. Or me.

After that whole exorcism, I decided to be a good cousin. I got up. Walked to where Martha was sitting — throne in the center, tiara slightly tilted, makeup actually not bad.

She saw me coming and her smile got tight. That competition smile we do.

"Gloria!! You came!" she said.

"Martha! Oh my God, you look... married!" I said, hugging her. "Your makeup? Flawless. Who did it? Actually good."

She laughed. "Thank you! And you — of course you had to come in THAT dress. You always know how to slay. Even at MY wedding, you have to be the moment."

I accepted that. In good faith. Because it's true.

"You know me," I said, soft laugh. "I tried to be simple."

We were doing fine. Fake nice, real shade, perfect balance.

Then — of course — "Photo! Photo! The two Gilbert girls!"

A photographer came running. The guests started gathering. Phones up again.

Martha stood. I stood. He said "Bride in the middle!" But I just... stayed close. Like, really close. Hip to hip. Smile to smile. Because if there's a picture taken today, and there will be a thousand, I will be IN it. And I will be the one they look at.

Martha smiled for the camera.

I smiled for history.

Click.

Diary, I had just became the owner of her wedding day.

Okay, let's get into the part I actually wanted to skip.

Because I was doing my good cousin routine. Floating. Smiling. Being gracious.

And then I heard them.

I was walking past the back tables — you know the ones where the old aunties and the wannabe fashion girls sit, the ones who got invited because somebody had to fill seats — and I heard my name.

Gloria.

Not "Gloria looks amazing." Not the usual.

It was that whisper-laugh. That nasty, wine-drunk whisper-laugh.

"She has no shame. At 36, single, still coming here to drag attention. Doesn't she feel embarrassed?"

The other one cackled. "If it was me I would have stayed home. No husband, no man, just designer clothes. What is clothes going to do for you at night?"

Diary, my cheeks?

My cheeks were already swelling from hours of smiling that didn't come from my heart. Fake smile after fake smile. And my heart — my pride — it bled.

Because for one stupid second I realized they might be right. Not about the shame. But about the trap.

No matter what you do, some asshole who can't even tell the difference between real Schiaparelli and Zara Schiaparelli-inspired is going to have an opinion about you. Some girl whose whole closet is Shein and regret will sit there and judge you.

I stood there behind a pillar. Listening. Letting them finish. My nails digging into my wine glass.

And I thought — God, I thought about what I actually wanted to do today.

If I had stayed back at home, like I actually wanted to. In my quiet apartment near Central Park. Windows open. Smoking that soft Italian weed Austin got for me when he visited last week — and don't get it twisted, Austin is just a friend. A very good friend who doesn't live on the internet so you will never see some idiotic blog write "Gloria Gilbert spotted with mysterious man!" We just... understand each other. He knows his way around me, let's leave it there.

If I had stayed home, enjoying that and him, people would still talk. "Oh, she didn't come to Martha's wedding because she's jealous. Because she's angry. Because no one wants her."

Now I'm here. In Elena. In full beat. Being polite. Being present. And they are still calling me shameless.

So what's the point?

I was in that mood — you know that mood where you're about to cry but your lashes are too expensive to cry? — and I turned too fast. Too dramatic. Very me.

And my hip hit something.

A small pedestal. One of those stupid wedding artifacts Martha rented to look cultured. A little ceramic angel or vase or whatever. White and gold and trying too hard.

It fell.

Clack. Clack-clack.

Not a loud crash. But in a ballroom where everyone is pretending to listen to vows, it was a gunshot.

The music didn't stop but their head did THAT thing. Turn. Stare. Whisper.

"Who is there?"

"Someone fell?"

"Go check!"

Heels. Steps. Coming towards me.

Panic. Real panic. Not model panic.

I grabbed my dress — diary, this gown is HEAVY when you're running, beads everywhere, slit suddenly not sexy but stressful — and I ran. As fast as a girl in 6-inch Louboutins and a sculpted dress can run.

I took a left. Out of the ballroom, into that quiet corridor they use for photos. Dim lights, cold air, paintings hung on the walls to make the hotel look like a museum.

And he was there.

Leaning against the wall. Alone. Just... looking at a painting like he had all the time in the world.

God.

He was not supposed to be there. He was not part of my plan. Tall. Shoulders that filled his black suit correctly — not like those boys who wear suits like costumes. Hair pushed back, a little messy, like he ran his hands through it. And his face — calm. Bored, even. Like weddings bore him too.

He turned when he heard my clacking. My breathing.

Our eyes met.

He didn't say "Are you okay?" He didn't say "Gloria Gilbert? Oh my God can I get a picture?" He just looked at me. At my dress. At my chest heaving. At my eyes that were about to betray me.

I didn't think.

I rushed to him. Grabbed the lapel of his jacket with both hands. Hard. My beads scratched against his shirt.

And I pulled him towards me.

And I kissed him.

Not a cute peck. Not a soft glam kiss.

I kissed him like I was trying to shut the whole ballroom up. Like I was trying to prove that my love-shaped lips still knew how to work. Desperate, wine-tasting, angry, needy.

He froze for one second. Just one second of pure shock.

And then his hand — diary, his hand found my waist. Under the beads. Squeezing. Holding me there. Like he was not going to let me run again.

His other hand went to my jaw, tilting me. He kissed me back deeper, slower, like he had been waiting in this hallway just for this.

My back hit the wall. His suit smelled like expensive cologne and cold air. My gown was bunched up in my fists.

Footsteps were getting closer from the ballroom. Voices calling, "Hello? Is someone here?"

We didn't stop.