I nod way too hard and then realize I’m still clutching his hand. I drop it so fast you’d think it burned me.
Before I can make it worse, Mum swoops in with a perfectly timed hand on my back, steering me forward.
My legs are moving, sure, but my brain? Offline. No-one’s home.
Mrs. C barely registers me as I mumble something incoherent her way. Honestly, it’s a relief—I’d rather not exist to her right now.
When I reach Sophia, I’m simultaneously comforted to see my friend and absolutely gutted at the sight of her wobbling lip. Her mascara is staging a brave yet doomed defense as she dabs at her eyes with what used to be a tissue.
I pull her into a hug. “Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
Her head hits my shoulder, and she explodes. “It’s just . . . it’s just . . . devastating!” she wails, muffled against me.
“I know,” I murmur, stroking her back. “I know, sweetie. It’s awful.”
I hate seeing her like this.
I finally manage to step away, only to find myself face-to-face with . . .
Charlie.
Okay, keep it together. This is your moment. Be elegant. Channel your inner duchess. What would Kate Middleton do?
What comes out of my mouth is . . . not that. Not even close.
“Oh my gosh, hi!” I chirp, with the manic energy of someone hosting a children’s party rather than attending a funeral.
My brain screams in horror, and I overcorrect instantly. “I mean,” I say, dropping my voice to a somber, funeral-worthy growl, “so very sorry for your loss.”
“Nice to see you, Daisy,” he says in a tone that suggests it’s not nice at all. “Thanks for coming.”
Without missing a beat, he glances at Julia—Future Mrs. Cavendish—and adds quickly, “For Sophia. I’m sure she’s delighted to have you.”
His eyes flick over me, that subtle once-over he thinks goes unnoticed. It doesn’t. I clock it—the look that saysNot girlfriend material, but I’d still bang you in the shed.Yeah, drink it in, asshole. My tits look killer in this dress, and we both know it. May they haunt you like the Ghost of Christmas Tits Past.
“And you must be Julia,” I chirp, still stuck in my horrifying children’s TV presenter mode. All I’m missing is a set of puppets. “So nice to meet you!”
“Hello,” she says, stiffly polite, clearly weirded out by me. “Lovely to meet you.”
Her face stays blank, not a flicker of recognition.
He hasn’t even mentioned me.
I swallow hard. I’m not even a blip on her radar. I’m nothing to her.
All those years. All that heartache. And for what?
To not even matter.
I feel a prickle at the back of my neck and glance up, only to find Edward frowning at me, even though he’s talking to someone.
“Move along, love,” Mum whispers to me.
I let her guide me into the church, face flaming. Bernard’s probably up there grinning down, thinking,That’s my girl.
A hush settles over the church as Edward rises from the front pew and strides to the podium. I shift on my rock-hard seat, suddenly more alert than I was during the vicar’s endless Bible verse remix.
Truth is, I’ve spent most of the service replaying the tent incident in my head. How could I not? Some twisted part of me wishes I’d snapped a photo—something to ogle before bed for the rest of my life. I mean, I’m a girl who loves sex, and damn, the things I could do with that dick of his.
