The Bride Who Refused to Reset Chapter 2

Dinner was reserved at a private dining club downtown—Sienna’s favorite, specializing in delicately poached seafood and bland, unseasoned broths.

I sat beside Garrett, watching the waiter set down plates of steamed sea bass, poached wild prawns, and mild scallion rice. I didn't pick up my fork.

Everyone at the table knew I craved heat—crushed chili peppers, rich spices, food that made your tongue burn. But inside the Mercer family orbit, personal preferences were an offense unless they belonged to Sienna.

“Nora, you aren't touching anything. Are you exhausted from today?”

My father transferred a pristine flake of white fish into Sienna’s bowl before turning his attention to me, his tone radiating measured approval.

“You carried yourself very well this afternoon. No screaming, no theatrics. That is what a real older sister looks like.”

The satisfaction in his voice was unmistakable—the quiet pride of a trainer who had finally broken an unruly mare.

I lifted my fork, placed a leaf of steamed baby bok choy into my mouth, and chewed until it tasted like wet paper. “Just not very hungry,” I said, keeping my gaze lowered.

My mother set her napkin down with a quiet sigh, leaning forward with an expression of maternal martyrdom. “Nora, you’ve always had that stubborn streak. But you have to understand—parents love both their children equally. Sienna has a weak heart; she’s fragile. When you show a little grace, it’s not just for her sake. It’s for your own good.”

For my own good.

I swallowed the greens, fighting the bile rising in my throat.

To make me “mature,” they had spent thousands of dollars renting a ballroom for seven consecutive days, hiring nearly a hundred actors to repeat the same rehearsed cues, all to watch me crack, beg, and finally fall in line.

“I understand, Mom,” I said quietly, looking up to give them the exact hollow smile they had purchased.

The air at the table visibly relaxed.

Sienna leaned her head against our mother’s shoulder, giggling at something on her phone. Under the tablecloth, Garrett reached over and took my left hand, his thumb stroking the soft skin over my knuckles with rhythmic, possessive familiarity.

“Tomorrow is Saturday,” he whispered near my ear. “Let’s go down to the jeweler’s on Michigan Avenue. I’ll let you pick out a new diamond.”

I pulled my hand back under the guise of reaching for my water glass. “Why? Didn't we already finalize the ring?”

Garrett’s fingers lingered awkwardly in the empty air, his expression twitching before he regained his composure.

The custom ring we had chosen three months ago was currently sitting in Sienna’s jewelry box. Yesterday—during what they called the sixth reset—she had slipped it onto her own index finger, weeping about how pretty it was, until Garrett gently took her hand, looked at me, and said we could always resize it for her while he ordered another for me.

“That setting was a little dated anyway,” he offered, his excuse paper-thin. “You deserve something better.”

“Whatever you think,” I murmured. “I don't mind.”

The rest of the meal passed like a funeral conducted in whispers. When Garrett pulled up to the curb afterward, expecting me to get into his car, I told him I was going back to my parents' house.

I needed to see what, if anything, was still mine inside the walls where I had grown up.

My childhood bedroom was spotless, sterile, and eerily devoid of personality. Over the years, whenever Sienna took a liking to anything I owned—a vintage leather jacket, a silver fountain pen, a framed print from a gallery I loved—it would inevitably vanish, only to reappear on her vanity the next morning. My mother would always chalk it up to Sienna’s "innocent sleepwalking," and to preserve the fragile illusion that kept the days moving forward, I had always pretended not to notice.

I knelt down, pulled open the false bottom of my lowest dresser drawer, and retrieved a small fireproof lockbox.

Inside were my personal documents: my passport, my birth certificate, and the emergency debit cards tied to private accounts I had quietly opened over the last four years.

I set the box on the duvet, counting the documents one by one.

A soft knock came at the door, and Garrett pushed it open before I could answer. He was carrying a mug of warm milk, which he set on the bedside table.

“You really decided to sleep here tonight?” He walked over, leaning down to wrap his arms around my shoulders.

I leaned forward slightly, slipping out of his reach as I slid the contents of the lockbox into an unbranded canvas tote bag.

“I just wanted to spend a night here before the wedding,” I said, keeping my back to him.

His hands hung in the air for a second before he dropped them to his sides, his eyes narrowing slightly in evaluation. “Nora... are you still brooding over what happened at the rehearsal?”

He sighed, sitting on the edge of the mattress with that familiar, weary air of someone dealing with an unreasonable child. “I did that for you, you know. You know how Sienna is. If we didn't indulge her today, she would have dragged this out indefinitely. Did you really want the whole family walking on eggshells for another week?”

I looked at him in the mirror.

He knew the truth. He was the linchpin of this entire, grotesque charade. Yet here he was, wearing the mask of the long-suffering protector, lecturing me on selflessness while running a con on my sanity.

“I’m not brooding,” I said, turning around to face the dark window. “I’m just tired.”

He walked up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder. “Then let’s push the wedding back by two weeks. Give you some time to decompress.”

His voice was a warm purr, but the words hit me like ice water.

Push the wedding back two weeks.

Not for my mental health. But because this afternoon, while Sienna was changing out of my dress, I heard her whispering to our mother through the dressing room curtain: “Mom, the decor in their new penthouse is so gorgeous... I wish I could live there for just a couple of weeks before they move in.”

“All right,” I said quietly, leaning into his chest so he couldn't see my eyes. “Let’s postpone it two weeks.”

Garrett exhaled a long breath of relief and kissed the side of my neck. “Get some sleep. I’ll pick you up in the morning.”

After he left, I locked the bedroom door from the inside.

I sat down on the floor, opened my phone, and logged into my company’s internal HR portal.

A month ago, the regional director for our Southeast branch in Charleston had reached out, asking if I would lead their new expansion project. It was a massive promotion, but I had declined because of my impending wedding.

Now, with a steady hand, I reopened the pending requisition, attached my credentials, and clicked Submit Transfer Request.

The chime confirming the submission echoed crisply off the bare walls.

I stared at the green checkmark on the screen, letting out the first full breath I had taken in twenty years.