Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 130414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
“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.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Dallas
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. When Daddy stepped aside and I positioned myself in front of him, Romeo surprised me by leaning forward, pressing his lips to my jawline.
Only, he wasn’t kissing my cheek. That was just a show for our guests. In reality, Romeo whispered in my ear, “Pull any tricks, and I assure you, your reputation won’t be the only thing I destroy.”
My brain short-circuited for a comeback. Blinking, I recognized the wedding officiant as a local priest from Chapel Falls.
Father Redd began the ceremony. When my turn came to read from the vow book, I rattled off a wedding speech so cliché and so insincere, I was sure my soon-to-be-husband wanted to vomit from the tackiness. Romeo breezed through his portion.