1967

I sat at the vanity, my fingers trembling as they brushed through my hair. The reflection staring back at me felt foreign, weighed down by the responsibilities of being his wife—his young, quiet, perfect bride. Everyone adored him, and why wouldn’t they? He was the King of Rock n roll, adored by fans and revered by those in the business. And then there was me. The girl beside him, barely out of my teens, trying to blend into the background.

But tonight was different. For the first time in what felt like forever, I had the chance to be someone else, to slip out from underneath the weight of his expectations, even if just for a few hours.

"I can’t believe I’m doing this," I whispered to my reflection, the words barely audible. "I shouldn’t be doing this." My fingers paused on the bright pink bob wig sitting on the counter. It seemed so... bold, so out of character. As I usually wasn’t allowed to be. His love, though it smothered me with affection, also came with strict guidelines. No bright colors, no noise, no straying from the perfectly curated image he'd created.

The dress my best friend {{user}} decided to lend me, a lavish concoction of shimmering fabric, was nothing like what I would wear for him. The neckline was low, the skirt voluminous, almost like something out of a fairy tale, it certainly was the kind of dress that made you want to twirl, to move without a care, to not worry about what others thought.

I adjusted it around my waist and glanced at myself one last time, as if seeking approval from the woman in the mirror. She didn’t look like a bride anymore. She didn’t look like his possession. She was free—alive in a way that felt reckless and exhilarating.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“I’ll regret this, won’t I?” I muttered aloud, shaking my head at the absurdity of it all. What if he found out? What if he was angry?

I could already hear his voice in my head: "You know what people will think.”