Emily noticed something odd the moment she stepped into the restaurant. It felt offtoo empty for a Friday night, the lights dimmed unnaturally low, the maître d smiling just a little too brightly. James, however, seemed his usual selfonly the faint tremor in his fingers, laced with hers, betrayed any unease.
“Your table,” the maître d said, pulling out a chair, and Emily froze at the entrance to a private dining room. Hundreds of candles flickered in the dark, casting eerie shadows across the pristine white tablecloth. At the centre stood a vase of deep red rosesher favourite. Soft music played in the background.
“James,” Emily gasped, “whats going on?” Instead of answering, he dropped to one knee. A ring glinted in his trembling hand. “Emily Whitmore,” he said solemnly, “I thought long and hard about how to make this moment perfect. Then I realisedit doesnt matter where or how. Only one thing matters. Will you marry me?”
She looked at his facehis earnest expression, the stubborn lock of hair falling over his forehead, that shy smileand felt her heart swell with indescribable tenderness. “Yes,” she whispered. “Of course, yes!”
The ring slid onto her finger. Emily hugged James, breathing in his familiar cologne, and thought*this* was happiness. Simple and bright as a summers day. Yet just a week later, their peace was shattered.
“Youre organising it *yours*elves?” Mrs. Harrington scoffed, adjusting her flawless updo with agitated fingers. “Absolutely not! A wedding needs experience, a womans touch. Ive already chosen a marvellous venue”
“Mum,” James cut in gently, “we appreciate your help, but we want to plan this ourselves.” “Yourselves?” Mrs. Harrington threw up her hands. “Youve no idea what youre doing! Look at my niece, Charlotte”
Emily stayed silent as her future mother-in-law paced their flats living room. Mrs. Harrington lectured endlesslyon tradition, decorum, the importance of “not embarrassing the family.” Between speeches, her sharp eyes darted around the room, silently judging every furnishingas if deciding what needed replacing.
“Mum,” James tried again, “weve picked a venue. The White Willow. Know it?” Mrs. Harringtons face twisted as if shed bitten into something sour. “The *White Willow*? That new place? No, nonothing less than The Grand Imperial! The lighting, the service! And the managers an old friend of mine”
“Mum,” Jamess voice hardened, “*were* paying for this wedding. Well celebrate where we choose.” Mrs. Harrington fell silent, lips pressed tight, chin lifted. “Fine. Have it your way. Dont say I didnt warn you.”
She swept out, leaving a trail of expensive perfume and the unmistakable air of an impending storm. “Sorry,” James sighed, pulling Emily close. “Shes just enthusiastic.” Emily said nothing. A quiet voice whispered*this is only the beginning.*
And it was. In the weeks that followed, an endless stream of critiques, insinuations, and veiled complaints poured in. Mrs. Harrington found fault with everythingthe flowers, the seating plan. “*Pink* peonies?” She shook her head. “In *autumn*? No, white lilies! And the arch must be *glamorous*. And the musiciansgood heavens, youre *serious* about them? I know a *proper* quartet from the Royal Academy”
Emily endured it, leaning on her mothercalm, sensible Mrs. Whitmore. “Ignore her,” shed say whenever Emily, exhausted from another “wedding battle,” came to vent. “Its *your* day. Choose what *you* want. She just cant admit her sons grown up.”
But the true storm broke over the cake. “*This?*” Mrs. Harrington waved the bakerys catalogue. “Three tiers? Where are the sugar flowers? The figurines?” “Mum,” James said tiredly, “we want something simple. Elegant.”
“*Simple?*” Her voice cracked. “Youd humiliate me in front of *everyone*? Let them whisperthe architects son, and he serves a *school-hall cake*?”
Emily snapped. “Mrs. Harrington, lets be clear. This wedding is *ours*. Not yours.” Silence fell. Mrs. Harrington paled, then flushed, rising abruptly. “Fine,” she spat. “I see Im *unwanted* here. Do as you *please*!”
The door slammed so hard the windows rattled. “Well,” James sighed, “shes upset.” Emily stayed quiet. A restless dread coiled inside her. Two days later, the storm erupted.
At the bridal boutique, Emily overheard the managers phone call: “Yes, Mrs. Harrington, your dress will be ready. That *ivory* shade is *divine*almost the brides own”
Emilys vision darkened. She fled the shop, forgetting her fitting, and with shaking hands called her mother. “Mum,” her voice nearly broke, “shes trying to ruin *everything* Shes bought a dress like *mine*”
“Calm down,” Mrs. Whitmores voice was strangely firm. “Dont cry. Ill handle it.” “*How?*” Emily sobbed. “Just trust me.”
The call ended. Emily stood on the pavement, despair rising. Three days until the wedding, and she wasnt sure she even wanted it anymore.
The wedding morning dawned grey with rain. Emily watched droplets race down the window, legs trembling. Behind her, the makeup artist and hairdresser worked, their voices distant. “Emily, hold *still*,” the stylist chided, battling a stubborn curl.
Emily barely moved. One thought consumed herwhat dress would Mrs. Harrington wear? Would she *dare*?
“Sweetheart!” Mrs. Whitmore entered. “Let me see you.” Emily turned. Her mother gasped, hands to her face. “Oh, youre *stunning*!”
“Mum,” Emily met her worried gaze, “did you do something?” Mrs. Whitmore only smiled. “Dont fret. This is *your* day. No one will spoil it.”
At the registry, Emily barely registered the ceremonysolemn vows, Jamess radiant gaze, camera flashes. The ring stucktheir fingers shookbut finally, it slid home.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife!” Their first kiss as a married couple was distractedEmilys eyes darted through the crowd, searching for ivory silk. But Mrs. Harrington was nowhere to be seen.
“Shes going straight to the reception,” James whispered. “Said her hair needed fixing.” Emily nodded, stomach tight with dread.
At The White Willow, applause greeted them. The venue was breathtakingcrystal chandeliers, white linens, oceans of flowers. For a moment, Emily forgot her fears.
Then a black Rolls-Royce pulled up. Emily clutched Jamess hand. “Look”
Mrs. Harrington emerged, regal in an ivory gown, nearly identical to the brides, dripping with beading.
“See” James muttered.
But before she could take two steps, a young waiter appeared, tray in hand. He *collided* with her, sending dark-red liquid cascading over the flawless silk.
“Oh, *terribly* sorry!” he stammered, dabbing with a napkin. “Cherry couliswhat a *mess*!”
Mrs. Harrington stood frozen, face cycling through shock, fury, and humiliation. Emily looked away.
“IllIll be back,” Mrs. Harrington choked, fleeing to the car.
Emily glanced at her motherserenely adjusting a centrepiece, the faintest smile on her lips.
“You know,” James said suddenly, “Im almost glad that happened.” Emily stared.
He sighed. “Ive seen how she is. She *needs* control. Even today, she had to outshine you.” “James” “No. Im *done*. Done with her dictating my life.”
Emily leaned into him. Outside, rain fell softlybut inside, she felt an odd, quiet peace.
Mrs. Harrington never returned. The newlyweds danced, laughed, toasted. As for the mother-in-laws dress well, sometimes fate intervenes. Even if it takes cherry coulis, a clumsy waiter, and the brides mother.
