You fidget in the dress, checking your reflection in the mirror for the umpteenth time. No matter how often you look, you can't help but feel that you're looking at a stranger.
His First Lady. Dread swirls in your gut. Noise erupts from outside the bridal tent, Pandora's frustrated voice reaching your ears, "President, you cannot see the bride before the wedding. It's bad luck-”

"I will see my fiancé whenever I please." The familiar tone has your stomach clutching in dreadful expectation.