Chapter 373

The midday sun poured through the windows of Timothy's cozy kitchen, casting warm patches of light across the worn wooden table where we sat. The remnants of our lunch—half-eaten sandwiches and crumbs of bread—lay scattered across the tabletop.

As we savored the last sips of our coffee, the topic of wedding planning came up. Timothy set down his cup with a determined clink, his eyes meeting mine with a spark of enthusiasm.

"You know," he began, a playful glint in his eye. "I think it's time we got cracking on finding vendors."

I giggled. "And what makes today any different from the last dozen times we’ve decided that? It’ll probably be another year by the time we come up with anything."

Timothy flashed me a sheepish grin, his cheeks tinged with a hint of embarrassment. "Well, I suppose you have a point. But today, I'm feeling extra productive."

I raised an eyebrow in mock skepticism, a smile playing at the corners of my lips. "Is that so? And what brought on this sudden burst of productivity?"

Timothy shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe it's the coffee. Or maybe I just woke up on the right side of the bed this morning."

I snorted, setting down my mug. "Well, whatever the reason, I'm all for it. Let's make some progress. Where should we begin?" I asked him.

Timothy tapped his chin, his eyes alight with excitement. "We can start with the type of food we think everyone would like."

And so, armed with laptops and notebooks, we set out on our quest, scouring the internet for vendors. Surrounded by stacks of wedding magazines and folders filled with vendor research, I couldn't shake the feeling of déjà vu that washed over me.

The weight of wedding planning seemed to hang heavy in the air, but this time, it felt different—this time, it felt right. It was truly ours.

"Timothy," I began, breaking the silence. "Can I ask you something?"

Timothy looked up from his laptop. "Of course. What's on your mind?"

I took a deep breath, gathering my thoughts before plunging forward. "How did you go about finding vendors the last time. You know…with you and Stella?"

Timothy's expression softened, a hint of sadness flickering in his eyes as he recalled memories long buried. "Honestly, Evie, I didn't really have much of a say. Stella took care of most of the planning—it was her vision, her dream."

I felt a pang of sympathy for Timothy, imagining how difficult it must have been for him to navigate such an important milestone without having a voice in the process. Neither of us had wanted that union to take place.

"Well, this time is different," I said, my voice filled with determination. "This time, it's our wedding, our dream. And I want us to do this together, as a team."

Timothy smiled, his expression lighting up. "You mean that, Evie? ‘Cause I’m not too particular."

I nodded, a sense of conviction swelling within me. "Absolutely. I want us to have a say in every aspect of our wedding—to make decisions together, as equals."

A wave of relief washed over Timothy's features, his smile widening into a grin as he reached across the table to take my hand in his. "Alright then."

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We got back into the groove of things, finding various caterers, florists, photographers, and more. I found one in particular that wasn’t exactly fancy, but it could’ve been an option.

"Okay, so hear me out," I said, turning my laptop around. "What if we had a taco bar at the reception? I mean, who doesn't love tacos?"

Timothy chuckled. "I love the idea, Evie, but are we sure it's formal enough for a wedding?"

I grinned, nudging him playfully with my elbow. "Who says weddings have to be all fancy and formal? Let's shake things up a bit and give our guests something to taco 'bout!"

He shook his head in disbelief. "And end up with salsa on my suit?"

"How many times were you planning on wearing it?" I replied with a grin.

As we continued to brainstorm ideas and make decisions, our conversations were filled with laughter and lighthearted banter. We debated the merits of different cake flavors ("Chocolate or vanilla?" "Why not both?"), whether to include a photo booth at the reception ("Think of all the silly pictures we'll get!"), and even found ourselves choreographing a goofy dance routine for our first dance ("I can't believe I'm doing the robot in front of our families").

As we sifted through photographs for our memory table, the laughter began to die down, and we found ourselves reminiscing about loved ones who were no longer with us. I’d found an old photo of my dad, on where he was still smiling. Timothy brought up one of his mother’s, and her passing was especially fresh for him.

"I miss her," Timothy said softly, his finger tracing the image of his mother. "I wish she could be here to see us getting married. It’s what she would’ve loved to see."

I reached out to cup his cheek. "I know, Timothy. But I truly believe she'll be there with us in spirit, watching over us and smiling down on our special day."

He nodded. "I’d like to think that too."

We decided to take a break much later, shifting away from the crowded kitchen and into the living room. The evening was settling in with a gentle breeze as we lounged on the couch and watched TV.

Just as we were beginning to relax, the shrill ring of Timothy's phone shattered the silence. With a frown, Timothy glanced at the caller ID before answering, his expression morphing into one of surprise.

"It's my father," he told me, his voice tinged with confusion. "I wonder what he wants."

My heart skipped a beat at the mention of Timothy's father. Our engagement had been a whirlwind of emotions, but the thought of facing his father's disapproval still lingered in the back of my mind like a shadow.

Timothy hesitated for a moment before answering the call, his voice strained with uncertainty. "Hello?"

I couldn't hear the voice on the other end of the line, but Timothy's expression shifted from confusion to surprise in an instant.

"Thank you, Dad," he said, switching the call to speaker so that I could hear. "We... We meant to tell you ourselves. It just happened so fast."

Timothy's father must have sensed his hesitation, for he interrupted Timothy with a firm tone. "I won't hear any more excuses, Timothy. Both of you need to come over to the mansion right away."

Timothy's eyes widened in alarm, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. "Dad, I don't think that's a good idea. You're not in any condition to handle guests right now."

But Kamran was having none of it. "Nonsense. I insist. This is important."

Timothy sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "Fine. We'll be there."

As Timothy ended the call, a sense of unease settled over me like a heavy blanket. What could Timothy's father possibly want from us now? Had he changed his mind about our relationship?

I frowned, feeling a knot form in the pit of my stomach. "What could he possibly want to talk about?" I wondered aloud, my mind racing with a flurry of anxious thoughts.

Timothy must have sensed my apprehension, for he reached over to squeeze my hand reassuringly. "It'll be okay. He can’t do too much damage with the condition he’s in. Let’s humor him."

I nodded, forcing a smile. "You’re right. And at least we’ll be able to see how he’s doing while we’re there."

As we made our way to the mansion, I couldn't shake the feeling of apprehension that gnawed at my insides, my mind racing with a million possibilities of what Kamran could possibly want to discuss.