The wedding dress wasn't hers.
It was chosen for her. A delicate silk gown with pearl straps and a sweetheart neckline — beautiful, yes — but it felt like wearing someone else's dream.
Mimi sat in the bridal suite, hands resting on her lap, painted nails trembling. Her makeup was perfect, of course. Pale shimmer on her lids. Soft pink gloss. Hair curled and pinned with tiny white flowers.
She looked like a doll. A fairytale bride.
But it didn't feel real.
"Smile for the photos," someone said.
She did.
"Your groom is running late," someone else added with a whisper.
She nodded, heart sinking.
Kijo Volkov was late. Very late.
People whispered behind fans and glasses of champagne. Mimi stayed still, surrounded by strangers in white and gold. Her parents looked anxious. The officiant kept glancing at the clock. The ceremony should've started an hour ago.
Mimi tried not to cry. Her hands were cold.
Then — finally — black cars arrived at the venue.
A woman stepped out, tall, sharply dressed in a tailored suit, not a wrinkle in sight. Her platinum blonde hair was pulled into a low bun, and her heels clicked against the marble like a warning. She didn't smile. Didn't wave. Didn't look at Mimi.
That was Kijo Volkov.
The ceremony was rushed. Kijo didn't hold her hand. Didn't say Mimi's name once. She answered the vows like she was signing paperwork. Her voice was calm, dry, almost bored.
"I do," she said.
Just like that.
Mimi said her part too, voice soft, barely audible over the murmurs. When it was done, there was no kiss. No moment. Just silence.
Cameras flashed. Guests clapped politely.
Kijo stepped away immediately to speak with her assistant.
Mimi stood alone in her wedding dress, surrounded by flowers she didn't pick.
Later that night, at the fancy hotel suite booked for their wedding night, Mimi sat on the bed by herself.
There was a note on the table.
"Don't wait up. — K"
That was it.
No explanation. No phone call. No message.
She waited anyway. Curled under the white covers, still in her makeup, still hoping the door might open.
It didn't.
She cried quietly into the pillow — not loud, not messy. Just little tears. Disappointment. Confusion. Loneliness.
That was her wedding night.
They never went on a honeymoon.
Kijo left for a "business trip" the next day. The plane ticket had been booked before the wedding even happened.
Mimi moved into Kijo's penthouse the following week.
It was huge. Cold. Silver and black furniture. Marble floors. No warmth. No family photos. Not even a single candle or flower. Everything smelled like expensive cologne and nothing else.
There was a guest room prepared for her. Pink bedding, a small desk, and a window seat. It was the only soft thing in the whole apartment.
Kijo didn't show up when she arrived. Mimi unpacked her things alone.
Days passed. Then weeks.
They barely saw each other.
When Kijo came home, it was late. Always on the phone. Always serious. Her heels would echo through the hall, and she'd head straight to her office or bedroom, not even glancing at Mimi.
No "hello."
No "goodnight."
Just footsteps. Silence. Closed doors.
Mimi cooked breakfast every morning anyway.
Heart-shaped toast. Tea with honey. Fresh fruit. Sometimes eggs, sometimes pancakes. She'd leave a plate for Kijo on the counter, even if she knew it would probably go cold.
She did the same at lunch and dinner.
She even packed small desserts in boxes with tiny sticky notes that read:
"Stay warm."
"I hope your day was okay."
"I made this one sweet, just like you like."
Kijo never replied.
Sometimes Mimi heard the containers being thrown away.
She never stopped cooking.
Late at night, Mimi sat in her pink guest room, journaling or drawing little hearts in the margins of her notebook. She told herself to be patient. To be kind. To stay soft.
But every time the front door opened and closed...
And no one came to knock on her door...
The emptiness hurt just a little more