The first thing they’d shoved me into after I was detached from Royce then ushered into the Guarderobe dressing rooms, was, the dress. The silk and lace, sophisticated, once white but now ivory, faded from age, antique wedding dress. The dress that matches the veil and that had belonged to Royce’s grandmother.

It’s also the same dress worn by Royce’s mother on her wedding day along with this same exquisite ring. Both worn by a woman who has passed away, who was very loved and who I will never get to meet…

Mrs. Felix told me that it made her happy to see the family ring on my finger, but how could it? This ring has only been worn for the most sincere reasons—weddings that were about true love and soul mates. Yet, on my hand it’s going to be the symbol that will remind everyone that I represent hundreds of lies.

What would my father think?

Swallowing, I try not to think about that or him, as they’re tugging at the front and the back of this dress, with me bobbing around in it like a lifeless doll stuck in the middle. The distant roar of the crowd going nuts inside the arena flows over my guilt and my humming nerves, thankfully becoming louder than the dark voices inside my own head.

I confirm Guarderobe has finally hit the stage when I catch strands of Royce’s muffled but amplified voice talking to the endlessly cheering crowd. Unintelligible words echo down to where we are, followed by Adam’s and Hunter’s voices, also pumping up the audience.

More and more elated cheers flow down to where we are, and the pounding of feet is so loud, the screams so intense, that I have to smile. I’m thinking of Sage somewhere up there, screaming his head off, too, and living his dream. At the sound of the first guitar riffs, pounding drums, more talking and then the responding screams from the crowd, I actually get goose bumps. Guarderobe has a way of creating live electricity.

When the side-zipper on the wedding dress catches and stops up the middle of my back, just past my waist, even after I pulled in the breath and held it like they ordered me to, the small crowd around me also applauded.

But…why would they applaud. The dress won’t zip. Isn’t that a failure?

There’s more applause and even a sigh of relief when my feet, with a little toe-pinching, fit into the ivory silk slippers that had been boxed along with the dress.

“Half the battle is won,” says a short haired, blonde woman in her forties, who’s been circling around me since they’d shoved the dress over my head. “This we can work with. Thank God you’re gorgeous, dear Robin. But of course you would be that, marrying Royce Devlin and all.” She shoves her hands on my waist. “And thank goodness you’re nearly as tiny as Mrs. Felix and her daughter were when they got married.”

She tugs the zipper again and I wince as it catches on my skin, then she frowns over my shoulder into the mirror, glancing between me, the dress and her waiting stylist team. “Call whomever is doing the underwear run right now.” Her voice is urgent. “They’re to bring every corset the stores have. I want boned corsets, do you hear me? As stiff as they can find. We’re shoving a modern woman into an eighty year old dress, which was designed for much body types and different underwear. Tell them to bring me everything they’ve got.”

“Corset? Didn’t she just call me tiny? If that’s the case, why do I feel suddenly fat,” I whisper to Vere, who’s been hovering near, smiling at me with this awkward, cheerleader, go-fight-win expression on her face, or holding my hand this whole time.

“They just need to bring in your waist so it zips without breaking the dress. A corset will do the trick,” she repeats the obvious in her cheery-over-cheery voice.

Vere skips around me, looking me up and down, how the stylist had done. “Besides, corsets? They’re so very bride. And they’re back in style. What’s coming will be awesome. I heard it’s straight from Paris like all of the other stuff will be. Only the best for this bride because later some magazine will feature what you wore. They always do stuff like that. It’s also going to make you look wedding-night-level-hot.” She waggles her brows over her large, almond shaped, ever-happy expressive brown eyes. “So, yeah. Don’t worry. Okay?”

“Vere.” I blink at her, biting back a laugh. “You’re seriously telling me not to worry right now? Like I’m about to…you know, get married with little notice, but I’m not supposed to worry?”

“Yes?” She scrunched her face at that comment, and together we both start to laugh, because all other options from me cracking my molars in half, to fainting, to running, to starting to ugly-cry are options that are not going to fly. Not with all of these people watching, anyhow.

Mrs. Felix, Royce’s grandmother, wheels forward in her wheelchair, calling out, “Silence please. Everyone. I’d like to make a formal introduction to the girl you’ve already shoved into my wedding dress.”

When the room grows quiet, she makes this strange dramatic game show host motion towards me. “This is Robin Love, and as you’ve heard, she’s about to elope and marry my dear grandson, Royce Devlin. It’s rather untraditional but it will happen tonight on stage with my blessing.”

She claps her hands to her chest and beams up at me and I have to smile back because I adore this woman, and I always love how her high, eighty-year-old voice makes her sound like actress in an old movie. It’s something that makes everyone stop and listen as she goes on, “I know it’s all such a shock, my darlings. But we all know now impulsive my Royce always acts. You also know how difficult it is for these dear boys to have any semblance of a normal life. They also do adore staying one step ahead of the press, which is why Robin and Royce are doing this so quickly. We thought a surprise wedding would be marvelous and fresh. With every other movie star and rockstar doing these cliché, boring beach weddings, or trying those secretive weddings under giant rented tents with everything so over planned and disgusting.” She shakes her head and frowns. “My Royce wanted this wedding to be different and completely unforgettable. Something that has never been done before, and so…here we are darlings, each and every one of us so very surprised. Isn’t it wonderfully exciting?” She smiles and claps her hands again. “It’s up to all us to get our dear Robin, set up and looking right. I had my dress shipped from New York City, and now that we know it’s going to work, it’s up to all of you to put on the frosting on this gorgeous, wonderful last-minute-bride. Can we welcome Robin and her dear brother Sage into our family?”

After she’d said that word family, all I could think of again was my father, and then my thoughts stormed to the Perino family we’d left behind only ten minutes from this arena.

They were the family who had sheltered Sage and I when I’d run away. We had grown to love them so much. Mrs. Perino was like the mom Sage and I had never had, Angel, her son like the big brother I’d always wished for, and his two little cousins, Ana and Julia—the sweetest little girls. Ones who I want to be around while they grow up. That had been the plan, to stay with them. To live in the little cottage they’d offered Sage and I as a home of our own while Sage and I started our lives together.

But then, poof—in one short day, all of those dreams became impossible. When the press wrote that horrible story about me being a prostitute, the Perino’s sad past and how Angel had killed a man in self-defense when he was a kid, a sensational story that took ten years for the public to forget, was about to be re-exposed in the press. And it was going to be all because of me.

The Perino family is one of the reasons I agreed to this wedding so fast. They are my heart, they became our real home—the one we’d always dreamed of having. As much as I wanted to stay, I didn’t want them to be hurt for simply sheltering me and Sage when we most needed help. Which is why they can’t be here. Be near me or Sage or any reporter who might remember just who the Perino’s were ten years ago.

Suddenly the Perino’s all feel as lost as my father. While I stand here inside this stadium, half dressed for my fake wedding to Royce, I wonder who I am and who I’m about to become and I wonder if I will ever see any of them again. I wonder if, should I be lucky and get to answer ‘yes’ to my own questions, will things feel the same between us when we are reunited?

Mrs. Felix zooms her wheelchair to my side and picks up one of my hands, giving it a squeeze. “Robin. Are you okay? Did I say something wrong?”

“No. I was only missing the Perino family. And my father,” I answer honestly, because there’s no hiding any lies from Mrs. Felix, but then because the stylists seemed to be eavesdropping, in a louder voice I add, “I’m also touched you called me part of your family which really does help. Thank you.”

“Of course you’re missing family. Poor dear, don’t fret, all will be well.” She squeezes my hand tight, a flicker of sadness going across the silver-bright eyes that nearly exactly match Royce’s eyes. “Sincerely, Robin. Though the vows have not been said, I already do think of you as my own granddaughter. After meeting Sage today, I know it won’t be long before he owns my whole heart, too. You’re not alone, dear. Please know, that though your father is far away and your dear friends can’t attend here today, that Gregory who has started a close relationship with your Mrs. Perino—he won’t let them stay away for long. These weeks of summer will fly by, and we will see them all so very soon. Yes?”

“Yes,” I answer, praying to God that statement also applies to my father. The sweet old woman looks so worried that I lean down and give her a hug, whispering, “Thanks. You made me feel so much better. It will go fast and I’m so happy to have you standing in for everyone who can’t. It—this—all means so much. Don’t worry about me, okay? I’ll be fine.” I lean away and smile, happy that she looks less worried about me.

She nods once, like she’s satisfied, and she speeds her wheelchair away.

* * *

After that, for me, all morphed into a dream-state-blur.

I remember everyone in the room started clapping more, and some were shouting congratulations to me. Some, rushing over to meet me. The very genuine excitement on their faces about how much they wanted to help me make this wedding special (even though they didn’t know me at all) made my own smiles back to them not seem so fake.

Mrs. Felix, all business at this point, once again silenced the room. “Okay. People. Introductions and sentimentality are over now. It’s time to get to it. First. I’m going to ask Robin to remain quiet during all of this and let us all do our jobs around her or this will never work. And stylists, I’m going to ask you not to ask this very nervous girl any questions or try to chit-chat. She was feeling very queasy in the limo, for good reason, so let’s just feed her sips of sprite, make sure she has a well-balanced snack while she’s getting ready, and you can all get to know her later. She will be around a lot from this day forward. Deal? Robin? Is that okay?”

I remember blinking and feeling floaty-and fuzzyheaded as I’d answered, “I can do that, providing I can thank everyone later, as well.”

“Of course. Consider you’ve thanked everyone in advance, as of now, and onward.” Mrs. Felix then changed her expression to what I could tell was mock impatience for the group gathered around. She came up with some teacher-style double hand claps and clipped out, “Now, not another word. Everyone. Chop. Chop. We’ve wasted valuable minutes and we all have too much work to do. We have only 60 minutes to make this dress look newer while I’d love to make the bride look a tad…older. Possibly more…sophisticated?” She flips to French, adding with a sigh, “If it is even possible with that young face.”

I do remember the almost clinical-level scrutiny I was getting off of everyone in the room that happened after that remark. It had made me stop breathing for a moment, so much so that Vere’s hand squeezing mine was the only thing that made me start up again.

An older blonde woman with very short hair, who seemed to be in charge of everyone else, took over the commands then and called out, “Okay. You’ve had time to look at the dress and look at the girl, let’s have them. Suggestions. Who’s got some ideas? Dress first. Now. Hurry.”

“How about let me get in that wedding dress and marry Royce Devlin instead? That should solve the biggest problems.” A tall, very model-looking brunette girl calls out, making everyone laugh, but the glance she gives me behind her snide smile feels slightly murderous.

“Productive suggestions, Clara,” the short haired woman shakes her head at the girl. “You will have to forgive my daughter, Robin. She had big hopes and dreams that she’d get either Royce or Adam to fall in love with her during her summer internship but now that she’s learned the truth about Adam’s wife and baby, and she has seen the ring on your finger as well, you can imagine that my Clara thinks she’s having a very bad day.” The woman laughs at her own remarks, but it sounds as fake as her daughter’s smile looks.

“Bad day?” Clara nearly shouts, unabashed by her mother’s comments. “How about ruined life? My reaction is a snapshot of how the entire female population of the whole world is going to feel tomorrow. Forgive me for being human, but I think I’ve died from this news.” Clara frowns while everyone else laughs again. “I am broken hearted, but I’m also patient.” Clara walks forward to hand her mom a clipboard then whispers so only those close can here, “Because rock star marriages never last long. Maybe I’ll be around to pick up the pieces for whomever dumps their wives first, right?”

“Clara! Enough.” Clara’s mom pulls in a fast, shocked breath, and darts me an apologetic look. “Don’t joke about such things, or you could lose your job.”

“It’s not like this internship is paying that well, mother.” Clara’s dark frown slides into a wolfish smile and her eyes flick between me and Vere. “Vere, tell her about my sense of humor, would you? I’m sorry if I offended you. I’m sure we’ll be great friends eventually, because I’m going to get to tour with the band this summer. You’ll see a lot of me which is lucky because…” Her eyes scan me up and down in this way that makes me feel like I’m missing limbs all over the place. “It sure looks like you could use a stylist. Like. Badly.”

Vere smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes like it usually does. “Clara. You’re crossing a line. Robin’s natural fashion sense is adorable.”

“Natural? Is that what you’re calling her lack of…everything?”

“Clara. Wow. Really?” Vere turns to me with a grimace. “Ignore Clara for the most part. Her sense of humor is dark, today she’s acting like some fool who’s lost the big Lotto Jackpot when there were thirty million other payers.” She whacks Clara in the arm lightly. “Snap out of it. You can’t think you even had a chance with Royce Devlin anyhow. He already had a crush on Robin before you’d ever spoken once to him.”

She rubs a hand against her heart. “Okay. Yeah. Maybe you’re right, but it still hurts somewhere deep. Summer interns have huge hopes and dreams, you know?”

I almost smile at that and add, “If it helps, I will try to help you find a different rock star to marry.”

“It doesn’t help, but…” Clara pauses and starts looking at me up and down again how she did before, before adding. “Yeah. Okay. Maybe I’ll let you find me a replacement. Maybe.”

If this were the real world I could just tell Clara that this whole thing is made-up. That, yes she’s gorgeous and sophisticated, and that she’s obviously the better choice for a guy like Royce. To me, she’s seems the exact kind of girl who would know about fancy stuff, fashion and makeup, plus, she does have model-level looks. If people had to vote, her against me, she’d come out on top as the one who should be standing up next to a rockstar in a white dress. Heck, in any dress. Because she probably actually owns dresses where, I currently… don’t own…any.

And heck, maybe I’d even tell her that she can have Royce Devlin if she wants him, just as soon as our divorce is final. But I can’t admit to any of that, so instead, I pretended to be sympathetic to Clara, while two sewing machines were wheeled in along with two worktables, also on wheels. These are loaded with tubes of glue called Speed-Set, plus what looked like a whole store of gorgeous, Swarovski crystals in every possible size.

Clara’s mom sends her away on some errand while she and the seamstress approached me again, tugged at me, tugged at the dress again, then whispered some more. Then they examined my face (or maybe it was my pores) way too closely. One of them whisked the dress up and over my head, got me into a robe, then shoved me into a tall director’s chairs waiting at the make-up mirrors.

My veil was removed and my hair dragged into every possible hair appliance, while more products than I had ever seen got spritzed on my curls. The only part I liked was when someone massaged my shoulders and whispered things like—darling, you must relax or the photos will not be beautiful. It is your wedding day. Think. Relaxed and beautiful—that is what you are.

They re-attached the veil (but not before my face was attacked with this crazy airbrush thing spraying foundation out of it) all while the massage lady kept saying: luminous. Luminous. Yes. Perfect.

I vaguely remember eye-pokes and being told to hold very still during the eyeliner, and I recall earrings being placed in my ears just as Sage who’d been pre-outfitted (the stylist’s term) with black pants and a white tuxedo shirt, all hidden underneath a collector’s edition Guarderobe Concert hoodie, had come in to be fitted for which tuxedo jacket he’d be asked to put on after the show

He’d grinned at me, asked if I was okay, which of course I assured him that, I was.

Satisfied with what he’d seen he ran back out, but not before flashing me the coolest looking VIP lanyard with a dangling gold pass on the end of it. A stylist had followed him out, and I discovered he’d also been assigned a personal bodyguard to hang out with him in some special chairs they’d set up side-stage so he could watch the concert up close, but, as he’d told me so he could, “be ready to walk me down the aisle when it was time.

As the back of his bright-blond head flashed by out in the hallway, all I could remember thinking then was: Is there going to be an aisle? On stage? And when is it going to be time.

Time. Time. Time…

I’d have panicked then, but that was when a rack of fancy lingerie in various sizes was pushed up to me and I think I blacked out instead.

I sort of came-to when Clara’s mom appeared to sort through the rack when I had only just sat there gaping at it.

She’d pulled out three things right away while pointing her finger at the others, saying, “No. No and Never.” She shakes her head. “Some of these were a last-minute order from Royce. Royce told me you’d want something pretty. White. His exact word was: Memorable. So, I had them deliver everything in white that the boutique, Belle Provocateur, had in stock. Considering it’s your wedding night, we shouldn’t care over-much as to what we’re choosing. Because…” She winks. “You brides don’t wear this stuff for very long, now do you?”

She flashes me this knowing grin and I nod and blush a lot which is, I think the proper response she was waiting for anyhow, as she rushes on, holding up three options of what look like mini strait-jackets without arms. “Pick a corset first, because it has to fit so the dress zipper doesn’t pop. It will feel a bit difficult to breathe at first, but I can imagine you’re already having that feeling anyhow, aren’t you dear?”

Nodding again, I’d whispered for her and Vere to choose, and ended up stuffed into a pretty, lacy and ribbons one that covered me in all of the right places but was sheer down my ribcage in-between where the corset had its seams and stiffening-bits sewn in to it.

Their admiring gushing as to how voluptuous it made me look had me dying even more of embarrassment, because no one had ever used that word to describe flat-chested-me before, ever.

I think it’s because my waist was cinched in so tightly that all of my extra skin and possibly my whole diaphragm and maybe even one lung was suddenly, full-on, water-falling like Niagara falls out from the top of the corset. Whatever it had turned all that I didn’t really have into something that looked like real-live porn star boobs!

Noting how I was trying to push everything back down while trying to yank the corset up as high as possible, one of the stylists who was helping to tie the ribbons slapped my hands away and assured me I was gorgeous and that the dress would keep everything too scandalous down where it needed to be.

Vere was pulled away and told to put on a strapless, silver–shimmering bridesmaid dress. Then, she left my side to have her own hair worked on while I was ushered into a changing room while carrying the panties that supposedly matched the corset. If you could call them panties, because there was not much to them.

* * *

I almost panic once they’re on, because as I turn to see why things feel so breezy in the back, I discover the back is made up of layer after layer of what looks like see-through, silk, flower petals. They’re pretty, despite the part where I’m nearly naked. Sexy even, if that matters—because it doesn’t. But if I were a bit older, and a real bride, this whole ensemble would be the best wedding underwear I could ever imagine.

“And it’s most certainly memorable,” I mutter, staring at the tags still hanging off of the corset reading how it’s written all in swirly French writing. I make out the word ‘couture’ and I’m not good at money conversions, but I do know that five thousand Euros is a lot of Euros for one skimpy corset. It’s also worth six months rent to a girl like me!

Shaking my head and trying not to be pissed off or shocked, I carefully untie the silk bow that’s holding the tag onto the corset and let it drop into my hand.

“No plastic tag-thingies on couture, I suppose?” I ask, talking to my reflection.

I know all of this has to look and feel real, and I’m sure real brides to rock stars have closets full of this fancy stuff; but considering how I had zero money to my name two weeks ago, this feels wrong. So wrong. And, aside from that, if anyone, especially my future-fake-husband sees me wearing this, I’m going to die. Die.

Thankfully, the stylist ladies were pushing more garments through the dressing room curtain and bossing me to ‘put it all on’. I couldn’t pull on the opaque silk stockings—or the thick half-slip that attached over my waist, fast enough. The stockings are weird, and the slip is even stranger, but, heck—maybe this is normal wedding-wear. I don’t know. And besides, whatever it takes to cover the awkward underwear, right?

The last thing they gave me to put on was what Mrs. Felix called the original ‘cage crinoline’ that was created when the dress was originally made for Mrs. Felix’s mother.

This was the strangest item of all. I told Mrs. Felix I loved the thing. Because, I actually did.

It was like a fancy, fabric-covered birdcage! It had actual whale bones sewn around and into it. Ones which created a series of hoops going ever wider all the way down. They crisscrossed along the back where it was supposed to support the wedding dress train. It took three people to tie the ribbons and laces that had been sewn on every side of it, until it hung comfortably on my hips, and it covered me and the corset and the underwear like a bodyguard. No one was going to make it through this thing.

Mrs. Felix, who seemed to be enjoying my transformation into an old fashioned bride assured me this final touch would make the dress sway and settle nicely when I moved while, all keeping it off of my feet so I wouldn’t trip.

Problem was, it was so heavy I could hardly move in it, which everyone found very funny to watch, including me. After a few practice-walks back and forth, then a full circle around the room, I had it down. The antique dress that the seamstresses had been busily ‘modifying to suit me’ (Mrs. Felix’s words) this entire time, was then laid over the top of this contraption. I stopped drinking water when I realized I’d not be able to go to the restroom for the foreseeable future.

The same three ladies took almost ten minutes to do up the tiny, silk, button loops that attached the endless row of round pearl buttons that extended from the bottom of my butt all the way up the back to my neck.

When they were done with those, the veil that two other women were holding off to the side because it had just been steamed, was let to drop around my bare shoulders and everyone stepped back and paused as the room grew silent.

The head stylist pulled both hands over her heart and beamed at me. “This will be over-the-top Disney Princess fabulous on stage. We’ve done Mrs. Felix, Robin, and the spirit of the Orlando parks very proud here.”

Mrs. Felix was clapping again, but this time with sheer delight, causing everyone to erupt with applause. “The seamstresses have pulled off a miracle! My word, pulling off the lace insert and stealing lace from the train so you could re-make the dress so Robin’s shoulders can be bare is such a modern touch. Oh…it’s a wonderful effect. Robin, I hope you’re pleased. The scalloped-edging of that old lace makes your ivory skin just glow, darling. What do you think.”

“Yes. Pleased.” I say pulling in a very tight breath. “I’m still trying to figure out how to breathe in this thing, that’s all. Any tips?”

“Small breaths dear. Many, many small breaths.” Mrs. Felix, who, somewhere along the way has changed her outfit to match an older-woman’s version of what Vere is wearing, zooms her chair even closer. “They didn’t succeed much on making you look much older, but Robin, you’re a beautiful bride. Truly.”

When they turn me to face the mirror I gasp because I don’t recognize myself—I mean I do, because it’s me, and it’s my face, but they’d made me into some sort of magazine-flawless-version of me.

My hair had been improved with extensions of crystal-embedded, twisted blonde braids, here, there, and everywhere. They’d used some of the same braids to create height up top to which is where they’d re-attached the veil and the handmade flower headband so what I was wearing could match the photos the paparazzi had taken in the garden where Royce had proposed to me.

And my eyes…oh what they’d done to my eyes!

I flutter my lashes because they’re so full and thick with some fake glued-on extra layers, and the eyeliner they did had those perfect drawn on wings. I’ve never been able to do those, no matter how steady I hold my hand. They’d also added a streak of silver glitter liner above the black which looked really cool, and over my eye lid, there were subtle smudges of dark greens, browns and purples as well as some iridescent white-pink just below my brows that only I could see up close. At a distance, the combined effect, made my eyes seem twice as big, twice as wide and fairy-tale luminous!

“Wow,” I say, putting a hand up toward one of my highlighted cheekbones. “Would you look at…”

“Don’t you touch one thing,” Clara’s mom admonished me, shoving my hands away. “No touching the dress, not your face, not one hair on your head.” She shakes her head. “This is why the bride requires a bouquet. So she won’t mess up the look. Here. Hold this tightly.” Before I can even register what the bouquet that’s been shoved in my hands looks like, Vere, skips up next to the head stylist, saying, “We are ready. Robin, we have to go.”

They escort me to a side door marked with a flashing red sign that says: Exit to Stage Left.

I notice that Vere’s hair has been strung through with crystal encrusted braids also, but hers match her darker blondish-brown hair color. The wild mass that usually riots around her head has been made over and curled just like mine to hang down her back and over her shoulders. Instead of a veil she has a few baby-white roses connected to a sparkling headband. Mrs. Felix is also wearing the same headband. Vere’s makeup nearly matches mine on the eyeliner and the lashes. I think she looks like a model, and she’s definitely much more comfortable in her dress than I am in mine.

I’m whispering, “little breaths, little deep breaths,” as we reach the door.

Vere jumps behind me to gingerly pick up the long train just how a real maid of honor might and says, “The guys are on the last song before they head down here for the tuxes. This means it’s time to get you positioned on the lift. Do you feel ready?”

Because Clara’s mom has followed us, and is hovering where she can overhear me, I let my eyes scream out, no-no-no, but answer with a small smile, “Aside from not feeling ready to be hydraulically lifted up onto a giant stage in front of thousands of people?” Vere nods as shake my head. “Vere, does anyone ever feel ready to get married?”

“I’m going to take that as a yes,” Vere laughs, shaking her head and pushes me out into the hall where everything seems to be in total chaos.

Vere and the stylists start acting like they’re official wedding-dress-guards as they’re shouting, “stand back” and, “do not mess up the bride—keep off the dress,” while blocking the path of anyone who comes near me until they retreat and we can pass them by unscathed.

One frazzled looking dude with hipster rectangle glasses and short black hair pauses to smile and give me a little nod like he approves, then he moves on to shout over everyone’s heads, “Don’t anyone push the button on the gazebo lift until Royce is done with his speech. Got me? Speech first, then the button.” He shouts even louder. “I said, speech first, and then the button. And someone had better fire the dammed extra fog machines now. We’re going for twice as much fog as usual for the bride reveal. Let’s go people. We’re about to make rock band history. Did the Rock Weekly photographers make it?”

Some guy answers him, “They’re here, along with all the top entertainment channels—as well as every damn person with a press identification card who showed up has been let inside. One dude said he was from some South Florida, Everglades nature magazine. I was like, are there even towns down in the Everglades, but he’s inside, taking notes for the gators.”

The guy with the glasses’ expression switches from stressed to relieved. “Good. Good. Will someone make sure to tell Royce? He was worried there would not be enough press.”

“Really? Royce? Worried?” Someone else calls out, adding a little ironic laugh.“I’ll tell him right now.”

As we wait for Adam’s drum set to be carted past me off of the lift and the Gazebo plus a strip of red carpet is getting shoved on, I glance back to the people back in the dressing room, but it’s like they’ve already forgotten me.

The bride stuff has been shoved aside and the table that held the crystals is now loaded with black and silver tuxedo ties. A row of silk wrapped white rose buds that will be pinned on the lapels of the guys tuxedo jackets have been lined up, and what looks like two racks of every size of tuxedo and tuxedo pants are now waiting.

The stylists have dragged five director’s chairs and long mirrors all into a line, with make-up stands and make-up artists already standing there at each one, waiting.

The thought that Royce, Adam, and Hunter are heading down makes me move my feet faster as they pull me up onto the lift, saying that ‘this will be a faster and safer way to get me and the dress safely to the stage instead of going around’ so I can stand in the wings waiting for the wedding music. I’m good with any thing as long as I don’t get stuck in an awkward conversations with any of them right now. Especially with my fake fiancé.

As I settle in with Vere on to the lift, Mrs. Felix calls out, “Robin, please remember that none of your past needs to be a secret anymore, dear. You and Sage…you’re not runaways anymore. It’s important we give the press the whole love story between you and Royce, as well as we need to be very open with what’s happening with your father. It’s all a bit much for you to be blurting out, but you need to try so we can gain public sympathy for you after the wedding.”

I nod, working hard on my breathing as I answer, “Yes. I’ll remember.”

Thankfully, Vere squeezes my hand again. Like Mrs. Felix knows she needs to cover for the part where she’s just stopped my heart from beating and maybe she can tell I’ve got nothing left to say to anyone, the old woman pulls in a long shaky breath that matches the ragged ones coming out of my over-corseted lungs, and she adds loudly so that everyone will hear, “Just think, Robin, in a few moments we’re going to be family.” She smiles brightly. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

“For better or for worse,” I squeak out, trying to joke.

“Only for better, dear. That’s why we’re doing this, for the better.” She zooms up beside the platform.

“Yes,” I say brightly, but when I swallow, it hurts like I’ve choked down a small VW bus and the bumper has lodged sideways in my throat.

Linking gazes with Mrs. Felix’s again, I wish I could read her mind. But she’s smiling at me so genuinely and with such an excited gleam in her eyes that most of my fear dissipates.

I think to myself how she’s a level-headed, international business woman who is in full support of what’s happening here today. She’s been married herself. She’s raised her own children, and I need to trust her that all is going to be well, just like she said. So, I try to copy the calm look on her face.

She flicks the edge of my dress that’s hanging over the lift onto the red runner. “You look beautiful, Robin. Go on, now. The lift will take you and Vere up, and then you’re to find your spot side stage. Look for little taped x’s on the floor and wait for Sage to lead you out.”

I have so much to say to her, so much gratitude for all that this wonderful woman is about to do to help me and Sage, but because I know any tears will ruin my make-up I take a whole bunch of new, little breaths and croak out only a whispered: “Thank you.”