The Bride They Replaced

Every time my adopted sister, Ivy, and I had a disagreement, my fiancé and my brother would always call for a "democratic vote."

When choosing our marital home, I wanted the historic townhouse in Beacon Hill, close to my parents. Ivy wanted the luxury penthouse in the Seaport District because it was more vibrant.

Deadlocked, we put it to a vote.

William, my fiancé, raised his hand first. "You're too rigid, Charlotte. You don't understand how to enjoy life. I agree with Ivy."

My brother patted my head. "Don't be selfish. Seaport is closer to Ivy's office. She can easily come stay with you when she's tired."

Three to one. Once again, I was forced to compromise.

And when Ivy wanted the massive south-facing master suite in my new house to build her walk-in closet?

"Let's vote to keep things fair," my fiancé, William, declared.

I was a rising architect at Boston's most prestigious firm, yet I didn't even have the right to design my own marital home.

Unsurprisingly, Ivy won unanimously.

Leaving me, the bride, with a master bedroom barely half the size of my adopted sister's closet.

Out of more than a hundred family votes over the last ten years:

My fiancé's votes for me: Zero.

My own brother's votes for me: Zero.

Since this was a rigged game of scales that would never tip in my favor... I choose to quit.

Let them play their little voting game without me.

The renovations on our century-old Beacon Hill townhouse were almost finished.

I was standing in the master bathroom, checking the tile work, when Ivy wandered in. She was wearing a silk slip dress, hugging her arms as she looked at the glass enclosure.

"Charlotte, this shower is just too cramped," Ivy complained, her voice dropping into a familiar, pitiful pout. "Can we put a built-in jacuzzi here instead? Whenever I work late at the firm, a hot bath is the only thing that helps me decompress."

Before I could even open my mouth, my fiancé, William, leaned against the doorframe and nodded. "Of course we can. A tub definitely gives the room a better feel. Right, Charlotte?"

Here we go again.

This was their routine. William would always agree with Ivy first, then ask for my opinion as a polite afterthought. If I agreed, everyone was happy. If I disagreed, they would immediately initiate a "family vote."

Looking at William’s casual expression, I remembered what happened three days ago.

Boston was hit by a massive winter blizzard. My flight was grounded, and I was stranded at Logan Airport. I called William to come pick me up.

Through the phone, I could hear William, Ivy, and my brother, Liam, arguing in the background. Then, William came back on the line, his tone light and entirely unbothered.

"Ivy booked this Michelin kaiseki place two months ago and they won't hold the table," he said. "We just took a vote. Three to one, we're going to get dinner. Just grab an Uber back, okay?"

I waited outside Terminal B for three straight hours in the freezing sleet. By the time I finally got into a cab, I was borderline hypothermic.

Now, three days later, they wanted to rewrite the blueprints of my marital home just so Ivy could have a place to take a bath.

I looked down at the drafting papers I was holding. My knuckles were white. I slowly lifted my eyes to look at William.

"Go ahead and install it," I snapped, my patience finally breaking. "If you're just going to listen to her anyway, why even pretend to ask me? Does my opinion as the bride actually mean anything to you?"

The bathroom fell completely silent.

William stood up straight, his brow furrowing in deep annoyance. "Are you seriously pulling this crap over a bathtub, Charlotte? From day one, we've settled things with democratic votes. If you're going to be a sore loser, just say it. You don’t need to throw a tantrum."

My brother, Liam, walked in from the hallway. He set his coffee down on the vanity, his face turning cold.

"Ivy is an orphan," Liam said, using the same tired line he always did. "She never got to enjoy things like this growing up. You’re her older sister. Is it really that hard to accommodate her? It’s just a bathtub, Charlotte. Stop making a huge deal out of nothing."

Right on cue, Ivy’s eyes welled up with tears.

She stepped forward and gently grabbed my forearm. "I'm so sorry, Charlotte. It's all my fault. I shouldn't have asked. I don't want the tub anymore, just please don't be mad at William..."

William immediately stepped in, grabbing Ivy’s wrist and pulling her behind him.

"Don't beg her, Ivy," William snapped, glaring at me. "The vote is three to one. It’s completely fair. She doesn't get to act like a victim and overturn the result."

Without missing a beat, my brother pulled out his phone. "I'm texting the contractor right now to add the jacuzzi."

It was done. Just like that.

I watched Liam type the message. The master bathroom wasn't huge to begin with. By adding a massive built-in tub, the space I had carefully designated for a stackable washer and dryer was completely gone.

Much like this family. The three of them were so tightly huddled together, there simply wasn't any room left for me.

"Do whatever you want," I said softly.

William scoffed, clearly thinking I had backed down. He turned his attention back to Ivy. "See? It’s fine. Let’s look at some Kohler catalogs later and pick out the hardware."

"Thank you, Will," Ivy whispered, wiping a tear from her cheek.

My brother patted Ivy's shoulder. "Get the one with the hydrotherapy jets. I'll cover the cost."

I didn't say another word. I just turned around and walked out of the bathroom.

I went down the stairs, pulled my phone out of my pocket, and opened my email. Sitting in my inbox was an unread message from the managing partner of the London branch of our architecture firm. It had been sitting there for exactly half a month.

I tapped Reply.

[I accept the partnership offer. I will arrive in London as scheduled next week.]

It was a minimum five-year contract. Five years of being an ocean away from Boston.

Five years was just what was on paper. As far as I was concerned, I was never coming back.

Let them keep their precious democratic votes. They could have the house, the bathtub, and the whole damn wedding.

I locked my screen, pushed open the front door, and walked out into the freezing wind without looking back.