Chapter 4: The Showdown at the Wedding

The bride suddenly came over, took my hand, and led me to Natalie.

She swept across the room with the confidence of someone who belonged. Her dress sparkled under the chandelier. Before I could react, her fingers were curled around mine.

She introduced me excitedly: "Nat, look! This is Rachel Lee, one of the directors at Blue Sky Gallery—the one I told you about."

She beamed at Natalie, eyes bright. "I told you we look so much alike, but you wouldn’t believe me."

She looked up. After a moment’s pause, she glanced at me coolly.

Natalie sized me up, lips pressed into a line. Her gaze was sharp, a little too long to be polite. Her gaze slid over me like I was a knockoff purse—close, but not close enough.

"Indeed, very similar. But not as pretty, or as young, as my wife."

She delivered the line with a practiced smile. The kind that lets everyone know who’s really in charge.

The bride, Lillian Carter, was my client.

She’d found me through my gallery’s Instagram. Her DM came out of nowhere—neat, professional, but with just a hint of fangirl glee. I was surprised, but a little flattered.

Half a month ago, she’d come to my gallery, wanting to buy paintings to decorate her new home.

She was all energy and big ideas, flitting from canvas to canvas. I’d never met someone so enthusiastic about color schemes.

The moment we saw each other, we were both shocked—we really did look alike, at least sixty or seventy percent.

Even my assistant did a double-take. Lillian joked about switching places for the day, and for a moment, I considered it.

That’s how we became close.

She’d drop by the gallery with iced coffees, tell me stories about her college days. We bonded over shared taste in art and bad breakups.

Lillian visited the gallery four or five times, picked out eight paintings, and paid $700,000 with her black Amex.

I tried not to stare at the card as she handed it over—those things are invitation only. The transaction went through without a hitch.

When she left, she gave me her address in Willow Creek and warmly invited me to her wedding.

She scribbled the address on the back of a business card, insisting, "You have to come. It’ll be fun!"

She often mentioned her fiancé, intentionally or not—a young, talented, second-generation rich guy, handsome and generous.

She’d drop hints about his smile, the little ways he spoiled her, how her parents were still in disbelief over her luck.

Just preparing for the wedding cost over two million dollars.

She showed me the Pinterest board, overflowing with custom floral arrangements and imported French pastries. The numbers didn’t faze her at all.

Whenever she spoke about him, Lillian’s face glowed with happiness, marveling at her own luck.

There was a dreamy look in her eyes—hopeful, a little disbelieving.

She was just a recent college grad from an ordinary family, yet she was marrying so well.

I envied her, if only for a moment. She’d found a fairytale in the most unlikely place.

She really was luckier than me.

When I’d just graduated, I met Natalie Porter.

It all started at a pop-up art show. She bumped into me, spilling her coffee on my shoes, and before I knew it, we were sharing Uber rides and late-night pizza slices.

But she insisted on pretending to be broke.

Every bill was split. Every gift was practical—never anything flashy or sentimental.

Not only did she never spend money on me, she lived off mine.

She moved in a month after we started dating, and suddenly, my paycheck was stretched even thinner.

After three years, she still didn’t plan to marry me.

I’d dropped hints—she always dodged them with a laugh or a kiss on the forehead.

Since Lillian was a big client and I wanted to expand my network, I accepted her invitation.

It seemed like the right thing to do. I wore my best dress, hoping to blend in.

But I never expected her bride would be Natalie Porter.

Of all the weddings, in all the towns, in all the world—she had to walk down the aisle here.