"I don't," she tells him.

The crowd sighs in unison; the hum reverberating through her bones.

"But—”

"I don't," she confesses, again.

There’s another wave of the dreadful noise.

She gazes into his amber eyes, something cold stares back.

What is it?

Hurt.

She wakes up with a jolt.

Her sweat-soaked nightie clings to her back. She rises, adjusting the frame of her legs along the silk of her mattress. Running a hand through her braided hair, she firmly plants her feet on the carpeted floor and begins the same little dance she did every day: bathe, then bathe in make-up and overwhelming perfumes, and watch as all her work was done for her.

For Iris is a model. And models do not get their hands dirty.

It was the same nightmare again. Wasn't it always? Sometimes, she thought her mind was conspiring against her; forcing her to relive the horror that was her denial.

She takes a calculating look at herself in her full-length mirror. The alarmingly high heels once used to be a sorry sight. Now, she walked around in them with purpose and poise; she carefully choreographs her gait, leaving them all awestruck. She was made for fame and fortune.

And yet, she was not happy.

"Ready to rule, girl?" Regina, her agent, peeked into the powder room and asked.

Iris flashed the brightest smile she could at her, which brought out one of Regina's own.

“Absolutely,” Iris enthused.

***

On their way to Fashion Incorporation, Iris slipped into yet another of her nightmares.

She is dressed in designer finery. The white of her gown glints off sunlight, the warmth of the sun not worthy of tracing the elegance adorning her. Her hair is tied into a neat bun. Are those diamonds, studded into her hair? She touches one and is met with the oh-so-familiar feeling she can recall of caressing a diamond.

Yes, they are.

"You look beautiful, darling," chimed a woman.

Iris turned around. A lady in a green dress stood by the door of the bride room. Her white curls were poking out below from her green hat. Green pearls shone from both her earlobes. She came closer and placed a manicured hand on her shoulder.

"Mother," she gasped.

The woman smiled. "Your father is waiting, Iris."

"Dad,” Iris gasped. Her parents—they were alive!

"Iris! Look at you," said a man, her father.

She couldn't stop staring at the two. This is what they had always wanted for their only child: a fairy tale marriage.

Everything blacks out and Iris suddenly finds herself walking down the aisle, her hand on her father's strong arm. She looks up at him and smiles. When he notices, he smiles back.

"Daddy," she says to herself.

She is brought back from her fantasy to the wedding. The crowd gasps in awe. Iris spots Natalie in the crowd, waving at her embarrassingly. A giggle escapes her mouth and Natalie stops, understanding; a sheepish grin on her face.

Natalie: always her playful self.

Everything blacks out again. And then...

"Do you, Carlos, take Iris as your wife?"

"I do."

"And do you, Iris, take Carlos as your husband?"

"I don't."

Iris wakes up in her limousine. As she recalls her nightmare, she flings into Regina and cries away. She hurt all who loved her. Her father, Natalie, and her mother—everyone.

She hurt Carlos.

"Iris, what happened, girl?"

"I do! I do I do I do!"

***