Perfect. Exactly what I need. A runaway bride and a room full of Bratva guests on edge.
I’m half-tempted to shove the clipboard into Jemma’s hands and tell her to run point for the rest of the day. God knows she could do it—she’s handled worse.
But I really don’t want to do that to her. After this, we’re supposed to become an actual, independent team. What does it say if I show her she can’t trust me? That I’m willing to hang my own best friend out to dry?
It’s one thing to take a break when the event’s running smoothly, but it’s another to disappear when the whole shebang’s on the verge of collapse.
I’ll lose all credibility, and I can’t have that. If I let the wedding of the season crash and burn, no one will ever hire me again. I’ll be out of a job, and that’ll be it. Goodbye, Sammi Banks; goodbye, everything.
I sigh, push my hair back, and unlock the door fully. “Okay.Let’s go fix a wedding. Or fake it ‘til the champagne runs dry.”
Jemma gives me a look. “You sure you’re okay? You look, like, super pale.”
“I always look pale.”
“Not like this. You’re basically Casper right now.”
I roll my eyes. “C’mon. The sooner we get a handle on this, the better.”
And the sooner I can go back to hiding from Petyr Gubarev.
But as I step into the hallway, I can’t shake the weight in my chest. Like I’m walking straight into the lion’s den.
With Jemma by my side, I hover just outside the chapel doors, trying to find someone, anyone, who can tell me what the hell is happening. A bridesmaid, a relative, the prosecco-addled mom from before—I really don’t care. So long as they can tell me where the hell the bride is and whether the ceremony is actually going to happen.
But before I can open my mouth to ask, I hear him.
Petyr.
He’s standing at the altar, tapping the mic and clearing his throat. No longer in his underwear, might I add. His three-piece suit looks spectacular on those abs, all glorious midnight black over a blinding white shirt. He’s polished to a shine, from the gel taming his dark curls to the gleam of his suit shoes.
“Apologies for the delay,” he says, voice even and calm. “We’ve had a minor change in the program. But don’t worry—the wedding is still happening.”
I nearly slump with relief.Thank the fucking stars.Looks like my credibility is safe after all.
I’m not so sure about my dignity, but on a rollercoaster of a day like this, I’m willing to compromise.
“This is a celebration, after all,” he continues. “So let’s welcome the bride to the altar.”
I glance around for a puffy white dress, but find none.
Oh, well. It’s the twenty-first century. Maybe she’s wearing colors. A power pantsuit, perhaps?
I’m about to whisper a question in Jemma’s ear, when Petyr speaks again.
“Ms. Samantha Banks,” he says, turning my blood to ice, “would you please join me up front?”
The world tilts sideways.
Jemma grabs my arm. “Holy shit. He meansyou.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My ears are ringing, my knees feel like jelly, and did I mention I’m freaking the fuck out?
What the hell is happening?
Just what in the everlasting hell is happening right now?
I wait for Petyr to acknowledge his mistake, but he doesn’t. Instead, his golden gaze remains fixed on mine.
