Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 135536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
“It’s showtime, ladies.” The wedding planner kicked the door open, sweating buckets under her designer garment. She wore an earpiece with a microphone hovered in front of her lips. “The groom is already waiting—and looking delicious doing so, I should add. All the guests are seated. It’s a go.”
Frankie shot me a desperate glance.
It’s now or never, it said.
And though I couldn’t imagine myself finding happiness with my cruel, beautiful fiancé, I also couldn’t return to Chapel Falls a damaged woman and risk Frankie’s future.
Besides, what kind of future awaited me?
No one else would have me. At least with Romeo Costa, I had financial safety, a roof above my head, and a future with children to look forward to.
“Come, my love.” Momma shooed away the hair and makeup stylists, pulling me up. Her smile died as soon as our fingers touched. “Your hands are ice cold.”
I swallowed. “It’s just the nerves.”
“Are you sure?” She peered into my face. “You would tell me if you were unhappy, right, Pickle?”
I almost collapsed at the sound of my childhood nickname. There was nothing I wanted more than to return home. Undo my mistake from a month ago.
“Everything is perfect, Momma. I’m the luckiest girl alive.”
Like all lies, my wedding was too beautiful, well-rehearsed, and above all—soulless.
My dress epitomized regality. Long lace sleeves with a deep-V neckline, clean column satin body, and a round train that covered the von Bismarck mansion’s entire grand stairway.
Three fashion magazines came to take photos. The profits went to charity—Friedreich’s Army. Romeo’s idea.
Just as with everything else, I didn’t have a voice.
The tabloids and local news had reported that the flower arrangement alone cost over 120K.
I didn’t doubt it.
My parents had spared no dime on the lavish event. Momma mentioned earlier that we’d long exceeded the million-dollar budget mark.
The reception—to be held in Oliver’s ivy-laced botanic second garden—included signature R&D cocktails after our names, hors d’oeuvres made on the premises by Michelin-starred Italian chefs, and five-figure goodie bags designed to make tongues wag.
I wilted inside the heavy garment, swimming in fabric that burrowed into my ribs.
I hadn’t eaten anything substantial in weeks. Not since Romeo cleaned the house of anything edible.
Hettie snuck me breakfast burritos and bread rolls under her clothes, so the cameras wouldn’t catch her defying Romeo’s order.
Otherwise, all the house had to offer was kale, chicken breasts, oatmeal, and misery.
When I reached the edge of the aisle, I stopped. A screen of hanging white orchids curtained me from view. Soon, I’d walk down the aisle and into the arms of a God of War and become a Costa.
Daddy materialized beside me, knotting his arm with mine. He tried to make eye contact as we stood on the long white carpet swathed across Oliver’s five-acre backyard.
I kept my eyes trained ahead on the orchids, my molars smashed together.
“Please, Dallas, can’t you see I’m devastated?”
Did he really just make it about himself?
“As you should be.”
I clutched my white-rose bouquet. The thorns dug into my flesh.
Daddy opened his mouth.
Luckily, the music cut him off.
With Momma and Monica in charge of most of the planning—I cited headaches and nausea all month—I had no idea what song they’d picked. Ave Verum Corpus by Mozart.
How apt. I’d always associated it with violent carnage in cinema, à la The Red Wedding.
Even that wedding was better than mine.
I didn’t know how I managed to put one foot in front of the other, but I did. At some point, Daddy and I sliced through the orchid curtain and came into full view.
Gasps and hushed whispers wove across the aisle. Flashing camera lights licked at my skin.
My bridesmaids, Frankie and Sav, carried my dress train while six flower girls from my local church trailed behind, pelting white rose petals at the guests.
I gazed down and avoided eye contact with the guests, who rose to their feet, clapping and cheering.
I wondered if Morgan was here. Somewhere in the crowd. Sipping champagne, entertained by how foolish I looked, marrying a man who still worshiped at her altar.
In fact, I wondered if Romeo had seen her in the time between the debutante ball and now.
The thought made me nauseous. Not because I liked him, but because I refused to be made an even bigger fool than I already was.
I reached the altar. The man I’d last left chained to my bed, covered in whipped cream, stood before me. Powerful, imposing, and larger than life.
The imagery sent sudden, uncontrollable giggles through me. I felt my neck flush.
Then I peered up, and the laughter died in my throat.
I’d almost forgotten how glorious Romeo Costa was.
Almost.
He wore a sharp tux. His hair—shorter than I’d remembered, trimmed to perfection—was brushed back.
His gray eyes—usually flirting with the color blue—appeared almost metallic silver. His face was neutral and blank as an uninspiring painting in a waiting room.