Page 3 of Before I Say I Don't
Her words still echoed in my head sometimes.
“Kam, you’ve known him for only a year; that’s not a long time to know someone before you promise forever.”
I understood her caution—it came from a place of love and concern—but I also recognized the depth of my feelings. When I accepted Viangelo’s proposal, my heart was inflamed with a blend of love, excitement, and perhaps a hint of desperation borne from the deep loneliness that followed our mother's passing. Some days, I questioned whether my desire for closeness had influenced my decision, whether I sought Viangelo’s steady companionship to fill the void left by my mother.
Danica was my sisterandmy best friend, but so was our mother. However, Danica had transitioned into her own life as a married woman, and with her having a husband, there were certain things we couldn’t do together anymore—things I respected but still missed. When I got bored, I found myself drawn to our mother’s house, sitting in her old chair surrounded by familiar scents, reminiscing and longing for her wisdom. She always had an innate ability to understand me without the need for words. With her absence, I felt isolated, as if a part of my understanding had been ripped away, leaving only Danica and Viangelo, who truly understood what I was going through.
When I met Viangelo, I was still wrestling with my grief. He, too, had recently lost his father, which created an unspoken bond between us; that shared experience of mourning forged an instant connection. He understood the kind of ache that lingers long after the funeral flowers wilt. In the early days of our relationship, he seemed to restore pieces of me that I thought were lost, offering a sense of healing. Despite everyone’s uncertainty about our relationship, I did love him.
I picked up my briefcase again and headed out.
The trial was over. Now my life—the next chapter of it—was waiting.
The boutique smelled faintly of roses and fresh linen—a luxurious kind of clean that can only be found in places where everything comes with a comma in the price tag. Danica had insisted on the place, swearing it was the only bridal shop in the city that “understood quality.”
I’d barely stepped through the door before I heard her voice.
“There’s my beautiful sister!”
She stood near the three-way mirror, arms folded, her perfectly pressed beige jumpsuit looking like it belonged in a magazine spread for “Women Who Have Their Lives Together.” Her hair was swept up into one of those effortlessly polished buns I could never quite pull off.
Next to her was Diane—my soon-to-be mother-in-law—visibly pleased with herself in a sharp pink blazer that gave off a powerful yet sophisticated vibe. The diamond studs in her ears sparkled as she held her champagne flute delicately.
“Hello, dear,” she greeted me, her tone a mix of cordiality and business-like efficiency, and I felt the subtle weight of her scrutiny. “I told them to keep the room ready. We’ve got a lot to get through today if we’re going to stay on schedule.” Her eyes flickered back to the mirror, ensuring her own reflection was pristine.
Danica’s brows raised. “The scheduleisunder control.I’mthe wedding planner, remember?” Her voice carried a hint of steel, emphasizing her authority in the situation.
“Oh, I know,” Diane replied, taking a measured sip of her champagne. “I just think some things might be better if they came from family.”
Danica’s lips curved into a smile that lacked friendliness.
“Newsflash… she is my family. Blood, at that. Which automatically puts me five thousand miles ahead of you in the line of people whose opinions actually matter."
Diane’s tight smile wavered for half a second. It was the kind of slip that told me she felt the sting but refused to give Danica the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.
It wasn’t a secret—not to me, not to Diane, not to anyone in the bridal party—that Danica didn’t care for Viangelo’s mother. Viceversa.From the moment they met, they were like oil and water, unable to blend no matter how hard they tried. They clashed over seemingly trivial details, from the arrangement of the tables to who would have the “final say” on wedding decor. Diane thrived on control, meticulously trying to plan every detail, while Danica reveled in her independence, unwilling to give authority to anyone else. Every interaction between them was a polite knife fight, cloaked in civility but sharp with underlying animosity. So when Danica said, “I’m her family”, she wasn’t just stating a fact; she was staking her claim.
“Okay, can we save the tug-of-war for another day? I just want to see the dress,” I chimed in, trying to be the peacemaker.
Moments later, one of the bridal consultants appeared and led me to the fitting area. The gown hung gracefully in the center of the softly lit room, enveloped in a delicate, sheer garment bag that hinted at the beauty within.
When I stepped into it, the silk hugged my body as though it had been perfectly molded to my shape. The fitted bodice, the soft flare at the hips, the train—each detail reflecting the vision I’d held in my heart since the day I said yes to Viangelo’s proposal.
Danica's reflection in the mirror glimmered with pride and joy as she took in the sight of me.
“Perfection," she complimented, almost to herself.
“It’s nice and very tasteful,” Diane conceded, stepping closer to examine every contour. Her finger traced the edge of the dress before she added, “But maybe a little tailoring here?—”
“No,” Danica interjected, her tone decisive. “It’s perfect.”
Diane’s smile tightened. “Well, as long as Kamira’s happy.”
Every time they spoke to each other, my stomach knotted like it was bracing for a fight I couldn’t win.
In a perfect world, I pictured them laughing together over centerpieces and cake tastings. Instead, every interaction between them felt like a high-stakes chess match, and I was the chessboard, caught in the middle.
“I am,” I replied swiftly, forcing a shine into my voice the way sunlight forces itself through, making sure it carried reassurance for the both of them.
