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The Serpent in the Sequin Dress: How I Reclaimed My Wedding
Part 1: A Dream Unfurled
The autumn air had a crisp, invigorating bite as Liam knelt before me, the setting sun painting the sky in hues of orange and violet over the shimmering lake. His eyes, usually so full of playful mischief, were earnest and a little watery. “Clara Vance,” he began, his voice thick with emotion, “you are my compass, my home, my everything. Will you do me the immense honour of becoming my wife?”
My heart, which had been performing an enthusiastic samba since he’d first taken my hand, soared. Tears stung my own eyes as I saw the small, velvet box in his outstretched hand. Inside, nestled on a bed of cream satin, was the most exquisite ring – a vintage-style oval diamond, delicate filigree winding around its silver band. It was perfect. It was us.
“Yes! A thousand times, yes!” I practically shrieked, throwing my arms around his neck. Liam Davies, my rock, my love, my best friend for the past five years, was going to be my husband. We were two creative souls, me a graphic designer, he an architect, building our lives together, brick by emotional brick. Our love was simple, honest, and as steadfast as the ancient oak trees lining the lake. This moment felt like the culmination of every whispered dream, every shared laugh, every quiet comfort we’d found in each other.
The ensuing weeks were a blur of joy. We called our parents, shared the news with our closest friends, and reveled in the blissful, giddy feeling of being officially engaged. My own mother, Elise, living a continent away, shed tears of happiness over video call, promising to fly over the moment a date was set. Everything felt right, destined, luminous.
Then came the dinner at Liam’s family home.
Liam’s father, Richard, was a kind, unassuming man, successful in his family business, but with a quiet, almost reserved demeanor. His first wife, Liam’s mother, had passed away eight years prior, and Richard had found love again with Eleanor.
Eleanor. Her name alone now conjures a faint shiver. She was a woman in her late fifties, impeccably dressed, always perfectly coiffed, her sharp features usually softened by a dazzling, if somewhat practiced, smile. When I first met her, I’d found her charming, almost regal. She exuded an air of sophistication, a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and how to get it. Over the years, however, I’d begun to notice the subtle undercurrents of control, the way her compliments often felt like backhanded criticisms, the way she effortlessly steered every conversation towards herself. She had a biological daughter, Chloe, a sweet but perpetually timid girl of twenty-six, who often seemed to shrink in Eleanor’s formidable presence.
The engagement dinner was meant to be an intimate celebration. Richard looked genuinely pleased, offering heartfelt congratulations. Chloe, too, hugged me warmly, a genuine sparkle in her eyes. Then Eleanor made her entrance, gliding into the dining room in a shimmering sapphire dress, as if she were the guest of honour.
“Oh, darling, that’s wonderful!” she exclaimed, sweeping me into a hug that smelled faintly of expensive perfume and thinly veiled condescension. She then held my hand, turning my ring towards the light. “Though,” she continued, her perfectly manicured finger tracing the filigree, “I must say, I always pictured Liam with something a little more… modern. Perhaps a grander solitaire? This looks rather… quaint.” She flashed a smile, ostensibly a warm one, but her eyes held a glint of something else. “Still, it’s sweet. Very sweet.”
Liam, ever the diplomat, squeezed my hand. “Clara chose it, Eleanor. It’s exactly what she wanted.”
Eleanor waved a dismissive hand. “Of course, darling. As long as the bride is happy. Now, about my charity gala next month, Richard and I are thinking of really pulling out all the stops this year…” And just like that, the conversation shifted, the spotlight stolen, the magic of our announcement subtly diminished. I brushed it off, telling myself it was just Eleanor’s way, a minor blip in my otherwise perfect engagement. Liam, bless his heart, remained blissfully unaware of the subtle jabs, attributing everything to Eleanor’s ‘enthusiasm’. He simply didn’t see the serpent coiled beneath the sequin dress. Not yet.
Part 2: The Serpent’s Coil
The wedding planning began with an exhilarating burst of energy. I envisioned a rustic-chic affair: a charming old barn venue, twinkling fairy lights, wildflowers, a delicious farm-to-table menu. It was going to be intimate, beautiful, and utterly us. I shared my ideas with Liam, who was just as excited, and we started looking at venues.
Eleanor, however, had other ideas. “A barn, darling? For a Davies wedding? Are you quite sure? People expect a certain standard. I was thinking a grand ballroom, something truly opulent. The Grand Astoria has an opening in late spring, I believe.” She’d already made calls, it seemed, compiling a list of “suitable” caterers and florists, all far beyond our budget and completely antithetical to our vision.
When Liam and I finally found the perfect barn venue – a beautifully restored, century-old space with exposed beams and huge windows – Eleanor insisted on joining us for a second viewing. She stalked through the rustic space, her nose wrinkled in disdain. “Oh, the smell of hay… rather earthy, isn’t it? And no air conditioning? What will our guests think? Richard’s business partners, the Mayor, my bridge club ladies – they’ll simply melt! And the floorboards creak! It feels terribly… cheap, Clara. Not the ‘grand event’ Liam’s mother would have wanted.” The subtle reference to Liam’s deceased mother was a low blow.
The next day, she called, bubbling with false concern. “I’ve gone ahead and tentatively booked the Grand Astoria ballroom for your proposed date, darling. Just in case. You know, as a backup. One must always have a contingency plan for these rustic mishaps.” She’d actually tried to book a high-end, competing venue in our name, without our consent, almost forcing our hand. Liam, finally sensing my distress, intervened, firmly telling her we’d already secured our chosen venue. Eleanor feigned shock. “But I was just being helpful! My goodness, Clara, you’re so sensitive about these things.”
The guest list became another battlefield. Eleanor insisted on adding dozens of her friends and business associates, inflating our intimate count to an unmanageable two hundred and fifty. “Darling, this is Liam’s family’s event too. We have a certain reputation to uphold. These are important connections.” My suggestions for keeping it small and meaningful were met with patronizing smiles and dismissive waves of her perfectly manicured hand. “It’s sweet you want to keep it simple, Clara, but trust me, these things require a certain… gravitas.”
Then came the dress. I’d fallen in love with a stunning, simple A-line gown, elegant and timeless. Eleanor, accompanying me to a fitting (at her insistence), declared it “underwhelming.” “It just doesn’t scream ‘bride’ to me, darling. More like… a bridesmaid. Perhaps a little more sparkle? A more dramatic silhouette?” She pulled out a photo from a magazine, a gaudy, beaded mermaid gown, and without my knowledge, scheduled an appointment for me at a high-end bridal boutique that specialized in elaborate, over-the-top designs, “just to try something different.”
Every conversation, every decision, every aspect of my wedding was becoming a contest with Eleanor. She constantly made comments about my choices being “unsuitable,” “not quite right for a Davies,” or “lacking ambition.” She’d subtly bring up Liam’s ex-girlfriend, Sarah, who “always had impeccable taste” and “understood the family’s expectations.” It was a constant, insidious drip-drip-drip of undermining comments, designed to chip away at my confidence and my vision.
I tried to communicate my growing frustration to Liam. He was sympathetic, but his default setting was non-confrontational, especially with his stepmother. “That’s just Eleanor, darling,” he’d say, squeezing my hand. “She means well. She just gets a little carried away.” He loved his father, and knew how much Eleanor meant to Richard, so he walked on eggshells, hoping to avoid any unpleasantness. But with every passing week, I felt my dream wedding slipping away, being replaced by Eleanor’s idea of a ‘Davies’ spectacle. My perfect day was becoming Eleanor’s showcase, and I was just the prop.
Part 3: The Venom Spreads
The bridal shower was the culmination of Eleanor’s takeover. She had, of course, ‘volunteered’ to host. I had envisioned a quaint, intimate gathering with my closest friends and family, perhaps a lovely brunch. Eleanor, however, transformed it into a lavish, ostentatious affair at a swanky hotel ballroom. The guest list consisted almost entirely of her friends and business associates, most of whom I’d never met. The music, selected by Eleanor, was a bizarre mix of show tunes and classical pieces, not exactly my cup of tea.
During the shower, she dominated the proceedings, constantly making pronouncements about “my darling Liam” and “the expectations of the Davies family.” She even gave a long, rambling speech about her role in guiding Liam, making it sound as if she was the primary reason he had become such a catch, completely sidelining my actual mother, Elise, who had flown in early from overseas and sat quietly, looking bewildered. My friends, who had been excited to celebrate with me, exchanged awkward glances, feeling completely out of place and ignored. Eleanor even used the opportunity to publicly “advise” me on my “poor choices” for the wedding, disguising her criticisms as helpful suggestions. “Now, Clara, dear, about those rustic centerpieces… I really do think we need something a little more… substantial, don’t you agree, ladies?” she’d crow, soliciting agreement from her captive audience.
The tension escalated when my mother, Elise, tried to engage with Eleanor about the wedding plans. Eleanor subtly but ruthlessly tried to overshadow Elise at every turn. She questioned Elise’s dress choice for the wedding, suggesting it was “a little too vibrant” for the mother of the bride, implying it would clash with Eleanor’s own (yet-to-be-revealed) gown. She even hinted to the wedding planner that she should be the one to give the traditional mother-of-the-groom speech, trying to usurp Elise’s role entirely. My mother, usually so gracious, was clearly hurt, and the friction between them was palpable.
At another family dinner, Eleanor produced a new, gaudy cocktail ring, flashing it dramatically under the dining room lights. “Richard indulged me,” she purred, admiring the enormous sapphire. Then, with a subtle shift of her wrist, she brought her hand close to mine, allowing her ring to dwarf my delicate engagement ring. “Clara, dear, your ring is so… modest. Sweet, really. But perhaps a little small for a Davies heirloom, don’t you think?” The insult was blatant, undeniable. Even Richard flinched, and Liam, his jaw tightening, finally registered the blatant mean-spiritedness of her comment. It was a fleeting flicker of realization in his usually forgiving eyes.
But the true breaking point came a week later. I was at Richard and Eleanor’s house, helping Chloe with some design ideas for her charity event. Liam was out running errands. I stepped into the kitchen to get a glass of water and heard Eleanor’s voice from the adjoining living room, sharp and clear on a speakerphone. She was talking to one of her friends.
“…Oh, darling, the wedding planning is a nightmare, but I’m handling it. Clara is so naive, she thinks she has any control over this wedding. I’ll make sure it’s the wedding I always wanted Liam to have, a proper one, not some barnyard hoedown. And frankly,” her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, dripping with venom, “the girl is a bit of a placeholder until someone more suitable comes along. I mean, she’s perfectly fine, but not exactly… Davies material, if you catch my drift.”
My hand, holding the glass of water, froze mid-air. The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing my breath, curdling the joy in my heart. A placeholder. All the subtle jabs, the condescending smiles, the undermining comments – it wasn’t just Eleanor ‘meaning well’ or ‘being enthusiastic’. It was malice. It was a deliberate, calculated effort to diminish me, to make me feel inadequate, to steal my joy, and ultimately, to drive a wedge between Liam and me.
Just then, Liam walked through the back door, carrying grocery bags. He saw my ashen face, the trembling glass in my hand. He must have caught the tail end of Eleanor’s conversation, because his eyes, usually so gentle, hardened with a fury I’d rarely seen. He followed my gaze to the living room, to Eleanor, oblivious, still chattering into the phone. The groceries slipped from his grasp, scattering apples across the floor. Eleanor’s voice, amplified by the speakerphone, echoed through the suddenly silent house.
“Well, I certainly won’t be allowing that ghastly rustic cake… I have a contact for a six-tier marvel, much more fitting for the Davies name…”
Liam looked at me, his face a mask of shock and dawning horror. I could see the pieces falling into place for him, finally. This wasn’t about a wedding anymore. This was about Eleanor trying to break me, and in doing so, break us. My dream of a simple, beautiful wedding was shattered, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. I was devastated, but beneath the devastation, a furious strength began to stir. Enough was enough.
Part 4: Crafting the Counter-Strike
My hands were still trembling as Liam ushered me out of the house, leaving Eleanor to her self-congratulatory phone call. We drove in silence, the weight of Eleanor’s words hanging heavy between us. When we finally reached our apartment, I burst into tears, the accumulated frustration and hurt pouring out of me.
Liam held me close, his face etched with shame and anger. “Clara, I am so, so sorry. I should have seen it. I should have done something sooner.” He finally understood. The veil of familial duty and a desire for peace had been ripped away, exposing Eleanor’s true, manipulative nature. He saw it now, not as harmless quirkiness, but as active sabotage of our happiness and our relationship.
When I finally pulled away, my eyes were still red, but my voice was firm. “I’m not letting her ruin this, Liam. I’m not letting her take my wedding. And I’m going to make sure everyone sees her for who she truly is.”
Liam, though still reeling from the revelation, didn’t argue. His initial aversion to “revenge” had been replaced by a fierce protectiveness. “What do you want to do?” he asked, his gaze unwavering. “I’m with you, completely.”
That night, we brainstormed. The goal wasn’t just to be petty or mean; it was to expose Eleanor’s true nature – her snobbery, her controlling tendencies, her hypocrisy – in a way that was undeniable, public, and wouldn’t make me look like the aggressor. We needed to use her own need for attention and control against her.
Eleanor’s weaknesses were clear: her image, her social climbing, her insatiable need for control, and the admiration of Richard and her influential friends. We needed to hit her where it hurt the most, publicly diminishing her without us appearing vindictive.
Our first step was to find allies. My mother, Elise, was an obvious choice. She had witnessed Eleanor’s condescension firsthand and was quietly furious. But the most surprising and crucial ally came in the form of Chloe, Liam’s stepsister. I called her, hesitant, expecting her to be caught in the middle. Instead, she sounded relieved.
“Clara, I’m so sorry you had to hear that,” Chloe confessed, her voice barely a whisper. “I’ve tried to tell Liam for years, but he never truly believed me. She’s always been like this. Everything has to be her show. She even tried to sabotage my engagement once, saying my fiancé wasn’t ‘ambitious enough’.” Chloe, tired of being Eleanor’s pawn, had had enough. She knew Eleanor’s secrets, her fabrications, her carefully constructed facade. “What do you need?” she asked, a newfound steel in her voice. “I’m in.”
Chloe was a treasure trove of information. She provided subtle insights into Eleanor’s past inconsistencies, exaggerated charity work, inflated social connections, and even some old, slightly embarrassing photos. Liam, fueled by a renewed sense of purpose, dug through old family albums, eventually unearthing photos of Eleanor’s own first wedding – a rather modest backyard affair, far from the opulent spectacle she often described.
The plan began to take shape:
Step 1: The “Acceptance” Strategy. I would outwardly acquiesce to some of Eleanor’s more outrageous wedding demands. Let her believe she had won, that she was completely in control of “her” grand event. This would lull her into a false sense of security and inflate her ego even further.
Step 2: Data Gathering. Chloe would continue to discreetly provide us with details – dates of Eleanor’s actual charity involvement, photos of awkward social climbing attempts, anything that contradicted Eleanor’s carefully curated narrative. Liam would scan old photos, discreetly gather details from family friends.
Step 3: The Grand Reveal. The wedding reception itself would be the stage. We would use Eleanor’s own need for the spotlight against her, subtly weaving in the truths she so desperately tried to hide. It had to be undeniable, yet so subtly orchestrated that she couldn’t claim victimhood, nor could anyone accuse me of being overly cruel.
We decided on a special wedding slideshow. It would begin conventionally, with photos of Liam and me, our journey, our families. But during Eleanor’s inevitable, self-aggrandizing speech, it would take a subtle, devastating turn. Liam, usually so laid-back, became meticulous, almost obsessive, in his planning. This wasn’t just about my wedding anymore; it was about protecting our future, and finally putting Eleanor in her place. The serpent had coiled too tightly, and it was time to uncoil it, carefully, publicly, and irreversibly.
Part 5: The Unraveling
The weeks leading up to the wedding were a masterclass in passive aggression and strategic surrender. I “agreed” to Eleanor’s grander menu suggestions, which Liam painstakingly ensured were exactly the kind of fussy, overly rich dishes Eleanor herself disliked but thought “looked” impressive. I let her dictate a few of the more ostentatious centerpiece designs, knowing they would clash with the rustic charm of the barn but make her feel supremely in charge. I even allowed her to select a few of her “important” friends for prominent seating at the closest tables, ensuring they would have a perfect view of the impending spectacle. Eleanor, preening, was convinced she had won. Her smiles were wider, her backhanded compliments less frequent, replaced by a smug satisfaction that bordered on condescension. “You see, Clara, darling? I told you it would be magnificent once you let go of those quaint notions.”
The day of the wedding arrived, bright and clear, but I felt a nervous flutter in my stomach that had nothing to do with bridal jitters. It was the calm before the storm. Liam was a steady presence by my side, his hand squeezing mine reassuringly as we exchanged our vows in the beautiful barn, surrounded by our truest loved ones. The ceremony was everything I had dreamed of – simple, heartfelt, real.
The reception began, and the atmosphere was joyful. But then came the speeches. The maid of honor and best man gave hilarious, touching tributes. Then, it was Eleanor’s turn. She had insisted on giving a speech, of course. I had “graciously” agreed, subtly suggesting a spot for her speech after the maid of honor and best man, and a little earlier than Eleanor expected, just before the main course. Liam had made sure the venue’s large projection screens, usually reserved for our main slideshow, were connected to the microphone, “for better visibility” of the speaker. A subtle detail, easily missed.
Eleanor, already a few glasses of champagne deep, strode to the podium, resplendent in a sequined gown that glittered almost as much as her self-satisfaction. She beamed at the crowd, then launched into a long, rambling monologue about the Davies family legacy, her immense contributions to Liam’s upbringing, and, of course, her tireless efforts in “guiding” the wedding planning.
As she pontificated, our carefully orchestrated slideshow began, quietly playing in the background on the large screens behind her. At first, it showed beautiful photos of Liam and me, our journey together. Then, just as Eleanor began to speak of her own “impeccable taste” and “decades of experience in high society,” a faded, slightly awkward photo flashed onto the screen for a mere three seconds: a younger Eleanor, in a rather cheap-looking, puffy-sleeved dress, standing stiffly next to a different man in what was clearly a very humble backyard wedding. It was her first wedding, the one she always described as a “lavish affair worthy of a society queen.” The contrast was stark.
Eleanor didn’t seem to notice the flicker, too engrossed in her own words. She moved on to her “extensive charity work,” claiming years of dedication to various prestigious causes. Just as she hit her stride, another slide appeared: a photo of a small, local charity bake sale, with a caption: “Eleanor’s first recorded official charity appearance, 3 years ago.” The contradiction was subtle but damning. Liam’s dad, Richard, squinted at the screen, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.
Eleanor, oblivious, continued to name-drop, mentioning her “dearest friends” among the city’s elite. On the screen, a collage appeared: genuine socialites, contrasted with small, slightly unflattering pictures of Eleanor awkwardly trying to get a selfie with a minor celebrity at a public event, captured discreetly by Chloe. There she was, clinging to the arm of a local TV weatherman, looking utterly out of place.
The subtle murmurs started, a quiet ripple through the tables. People were noticing the slideshow. Eleanor, slightly flushed from the wine, was still holding court. “And of course,” she boomed, “it’s imperative for a Davies wedding to uphold certain standards. One must ensure the bride is… well, suitable.”
At that precise moment, a line of elegant, almost decorative script appeared on the screen, directly behind her, integrated seamlessly into the slideshow’s ornamental flourishes. It was small, almost subliminal, but perfectly legible to anyone paying attention: “A placeholder until someone more suitable comes along.”
Eleanor, still oblivious to the rising tide of murmurs, seemed to finally register the movement on the screen. She faltered, her gaze flicking over her shoulder. Just then, Liam, with a knowing glance at me, “accidentally” tapped his microphone, causing a brief, piercing feedback screech. While the technician scrambled to adjust it, Liam quickly whispered to the DJ, who had been briefed. When Eleanor, flustered, started speaking again, the volume of her microphone was subtly lowered, while the background music for the slideshow was subtly raised. Her voice became harder to hear over the increasingly visible and slightly embarrassing images and texts on the screen.
She tried to recover, trying to project her voice, but the moment was lost. The “placeholder” line, now a little larger and clearer, reappeared. Her eyes darted around the room, catching the knowing glances, the averted gazes, Richard’s stunned expression. Her face drained of all colour. She stammered, then, visibly humiliated, she cut her speech short, mumbling a hurried “…and so, I wish the happy couple all the best,” before retreating to her table, her sequined back stiff with fury.
But the final blow was yet to come. As she stumbled back to her seat, a final sequence of slides flashed on the screen: a beautiful, artistic shot of my chosen rustic barn venue, perfectly decorated with wildflowers and fairy lights, radiating warmth and charm. Then, a close-up of my “modest” engagement ring, sparkling brightly, more beautiful than any gaudy sapphire. The final image was of Liam and me, captured moments after our vows, genuinely laughing, our faces radiant with a love that needed no embellishment. The message was clear: my choices were beautiful, authentic, and utterly ours. The contrast with Eleanor’s pretense, her grandiosity, her thinly veiled malice, was stark and undeniable. The projector had, quite literally, put her in her place.
Part 6: The Reclaimed Wedding & The Future
A stunned silence hung in the air for a moment after Eleanor’s abrupt exit from the podium. Then, slowly, the room began to buzz. Richard, Liam’s father, stared at Eleanor, a complex mix of confusion, understanding, and disappointment etched on his face. He looked at me, then at Liam, and finally, a faint, proud smile touched his lips. Other family members, who had endured Eleanor’s antics for years, exchanged knowing glances, a sense of quiet vindication rippling through the room. Chloe, from her table, gave me a subtle, triumphant thumbs-up.
Liam walked over to me, took my hand, and squeezed it, his eyes conveying a multitude of unspoken words: apology, pride, and unwavering love. In that moment, surrounded by our guests, we felt a profound sense of triumph. Our wedding, our day, had been reclaimed.
The rest of the evening flowed beautifully. My mother, Elise, stepped up, giving a truly heartfelt and graceful speech that resonated with warmth and genuine affection, a stark contrast to Eleanor’s performance. The dancing was joyous, the conversations lighthearted, and the love in the room palpable. We danced, truly free, knowing that a significant hurdle had been cleared.
Eleanor, for her part, remained at her table, stony-faced, making a show of being engrossed in her phone, but I could feel her furious gaze on me. She attempted to confront me later, during a lull in the music, her voice sharp and accusatory. “How dare you, Clara! That was an appalling display! An attack!”
I met her gaze, no longer intimidated. “Eleanor,” I said calmly, Liam standing steadfastly beside me, “this is my marriage. My choices. You made your intentions clear, and now everyone else has seen them too. This ends now. You are welcome in our lives, but your manipulations are not. We won’t tolerate them.” My voice was firm, unwavering. She sputtered, but for the first time, she had no retort, no comeback, because there was no denying the visual evidence, no gaslighting her way out of what everyone had witnessed.
Later that night, I learned that Richard had a long, serious conversation with Eleanor. The dynamics in their household visibly shifted. Eleanor’s manipulative power over Richard, a man who preferred peace to confrontation, was finally broken. He saw her for who she was, and while he still cared for her, he was no longer blind to her character.
Chloe found a new sense of liberation, strengthening her bond with Liam and me. She confided in me that she had been trapped under Eleanor’s thumb for years, and watching her mother’s facade crumble had given her the courage to start standing up for herself.
Our honeymoon was a blissful escape, a celebration of our love and our victory. We came back to a new reality. Eleanor remained part of the family, but her manipulative influence was diminished. She was viewed with wary amusement rather than deference, her pronouncements now often met with polite smiles and then ignored. She still tried the occasional subtle jab, but they lacked their former sting, bouncing off the impenetrable shield of our unity and my newfound confidence.
Clara and Liam’s marriage thrived, built on trust, mutual support, and the knowledge that we could face any challenge together. We had learned about standing up for ourselves, setting boundaries, and protecting our happiness. Liam had learned to truly see and protect our relationship, understanding that sometimes, love meant confronting uncomfortable truths.
A year later, Liam and I sat on the porch of our cozy home, watching the leaves turn a vibrant gold. We were happily settled, our life together everything I had ever dreamed of. The memory of our wedding day was one of triumph, not family drama. It wasn’t just the beginning of our life together; it was the moment we truly claimed it as our own. The serpent in the sequin dress remained, but its venom had been neutralized, its coils unwound, and its hiss reduced to a faint, impotent whisper. Our love, resilient and true, had won.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
