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Polly feels like she's going to choke.
Her throat is nothing less than raw from biting back sobs. No matter how hard she tries, tears won't stop streaking down her cheeks. Each new one burns hot as fire as it drips down her face and plummets to the ground.
Thankfully, there's no one standing in front of her except the priest, and he's respectfully directed his eyes to the back of the room, to where Polly can hear the sharp click of a pair of stilettos approaching. She forces herself to take another deep breath and presses her nails into her palms until it hurts.
The footsteps stop on her left, and when she glances left through the netting of her veil, she's met with a glimpse of vivid red hair. It belongs to a Blossom, there's no doubt about that, but it's the wrong Blossom. It isn't the one she was betrothed to as a child, the one she was promised to in order to end a centuries old blood feud.
It isn't the Blossom that she fell in love with.
That Blossom was murdered four months ago, torn from her life in a single instant.
But that hadn't ended the betrothal.
On the priest's word, Polly turns and faces Cheryl, so that her wife-to-be can lift her veil with shaking hands.
"Stop crying," Cheryl hisses under her breath. "It won't help."
Based on how red Cheryl's own eyes are, Polly has a feeling that she's speaking from experience.