Emily noticed something odd the moment she stepped into the restaurant. The air felt offtoo empty for a Friday night, the lights dimmed unnaturally, the maître d’ grinning too widely. James, however, was his usual selfonly the faint tremor in his fingers, laced with hers, betrayed any unease.
“Your table,” announced the maître d’, pulling out a chair, and Emily hesitated at the entrance to a private dining room. Hundreds of candles flickered in the dark, casting jagged shadows over the pristine white tablecloth. At the centre stood a vase of deep crimson rosesher favourite. Soft music hummed in the background.
“James,” Emily breathed, “whats happening?” Instead of answering, he dropped to one knee. A ring glinted in his trembling hand. “Emily Whitmore,” he said solemnly, “I thought long about how to make this moment perfect. But then I realisedit doesnt matter where or how. Only one thing does. Will you marry me?”
She stared at his faceflushed with emotion, that stubborn lock of hair falling over his forehead, his shy smileand felt her heart swell with indescribable tenderness. “Yes,” she whispered. “Of course I will.”
The ring slid onto her finger. Emily clung to James, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne, and thought*this is happiness*. Simple and bright as a summers day. Yet just a week later, their peace shattered.
“How do you meanorganising it yourselves?” huffed Mrs. Harrington, fussing with her immaculate updo. “Absolutely not! Weddings need experience, a womans wisdom. Ive already booked the most exquisite venue”
“Mum,” James interjected gently, “we appreciate it, but we want to plan it ourselves.”
“*Yourselves*?” Mrs. Harrington threw up her hands. “You havent a clue! Look at my niece”
Emily stayed silent as her future mother-in-law paced their flats living room. Mrs. Harrington prattled onabout tradition, propriety, the importance of “not embarrassing the family.” Between sentences, her sharp eyes darted, scrutinising the décor as if already planning its demolition.
“Mum,” Jamess tone hardened, “were paying for the wedding. Well celebrate where *we* choose.”
Mrs. Harrington pursed her lips, lifted her chin. “Fine. Have it your way. Dont say I didnt warn you.”
She swept out, trailing expensive perfume and the scent of impending storm. “Sorry,” James murmured, pulling Emily close. “Shes just… enthusiastic.”
Emily said nothing. A voice inside whispered*this is only the beginning.*
And it was. Weeks of endless critiques followedthe flowers, the table settings, even the musicians. “Peonies? In *September*?” Mrs. Harrington scoffed. “No, white lilies! And the arch must be grander. And those musiciansgood heavens, are you serious? I know a quartet from the Royal Academy”
Emily endured it, leaning on her mothersteady, calm Mrs. Whitmore. “Dont mind her,” shed say whenever Emily, drained from another battle, came to vent. “Its *your* wedding. And she just cant admit her sons grown up.”
But the true storm erupted over the cake. “*This*?” Mrs. Harrington brandished the bakery catalogue. “Three tiers? Where are the sugar flowers? The figurines?”
“Mum,” James sighed, “we want something elegant. Simple.”
“*Simple*?” Her voice cracked. “Youd humiliate me? Have people whisper, The architects son, and his cake looks like a *school pudding*?”
Emily snapped. “Mrs. Harrington, lets be clear. This wedding is *ours*. Not yours.”
Silence. Mrs. Harrington paled, then flushed, rising abruptly. “Fine. I see Im *unwanted* here.”
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the windows. “Well,” James exhaled, “shes upset.”
Emily stayed quiet. Unease coiled in her chest.
Two days later, the storm broke. At the bridal boutique, Emily overheard the manager on the phone: “Yes, Mrs. Harrington, your dress will be ready. That cream shadenearly the brides…”
The world tilted. Emily fled, forgetting her fitting, fingers trembling as she dialled her mother. “Mum,” she choked out, “shes ruining everything… Shes bought a dress like *mine*”
“Calm down,” Mrs. Whitmores voice was steel. “Trust me. Ill handle it.”
“How?”
“Just wait.”
The call ended. Emily stood in the rain, despair swallowing her. Three days until the wedding, and she no longer wanted it.
The morning dawned grey. Emily watched raindrops streak the window, legs shaking. Behind her, the hairstylist pinned a stubborn curl. “Emily, *stay still*.”
“Darling!” Mrs. Whitmore swept in. “Let me see you.” Emily turned. Her mother gasped. “Oh, youre *stunning*.”
“Mum,” Emilys voice wavered, “did you… do something?”
Mrs. Whitmores smile was cryptic. “Wait and see.”
At the registry office, nerves blurred everythingsolemn vows, Jamess radiant gaze, the ring stubborn on her trembling finger. “I pronounce you husband and wife!”
Their first married kiss was clumsy. Emilys eyes darted through the crowd, searching for cream silk. But Mrs. Harrington was absent.
“Shes going straight to the venue,” James whispered. “Said something about her hair…”
Emily nodded. Tension coiled tighter.
At “The White Willow,” applause greeted them. The venue glowedcrystal chandeliers, white linens, oceans of blooms. For a moment, Emily forgot her dread.
Then a black Mercedes purred up the drive. Emily gripped Jamess hand. “Look.”
Mrs. Harrington emerged, resplendent in cream silk, beaded and bridal.
But before shed taken three steps, a waiter dashed forwardand *splashed* dark-red sauce across her gown.
“Oh, *dreadfully* sorry!” The waiter dabbed frantically. “Cherry compotewhat a *mess*!”
Mrs. Harrington froze. Her face cycled through shock, fury, humiliation.
“Ill… be back,” she hissed, fleeing to the car.
Emily glanced at her motherserenely adjusting table flowers, a ghost of a smile on her lips.
“You know,” James said suddenly, “Im glad that happened.”
Emily blinked.
He sighed. “I see how she is. Needs to control *everything*. Even todayshe had to outshine you.”
Emily nestled into his shoulder. Outside, rain fell softly, but inside, warmth spread through her.
Mrs. Harrington never returned. The newlyweds danced, laughed, forgot her entirely.
As for the mother-in-laws dress… well, sometimes fate sets things right. Even if it takes cherry compote, a clumsy waiter, and the brides mother.
