“I know.” He looks at me in a way I can’t quite decipher. “And you don’t have to worry about your business. When the time comes, I’ll help.”
I blink. “You will?”
“I’m a man of my word, Sima.” His gaze turns that intense shade of gold that makes my knees go weak. “You stick to yours, and I’ll stick to mine.”
A bitter taste spreads on my tongue.Stick to my word…Can I do that, when I’m lying to him with every other word I say? Can I come through with my end of our deal and still protect my secret?
You have to.
You have no other choice.
I swallow the lump in my throat and follow Petyr out the door.
26
SIMA
Before we return to the estate we make a stop at the venue.
“Do you mind waiting here?” I ask, unbuckling my seatbelt.
By the way Petyr’s eyes narrow, I can immediately tell he does, indeed, mind.
“It’ll be quicker,” I hurry to add. “Otherwise, I can’t promise Jemma won’t try to waterboard answers out of you in the koi pond.”
His brow lifts. “The koi pond.”
“Yep. It’s a whole thing. Worst feature we ever added, really.”
He looks like he’s trying to remember it from his own wedding.Ours, technically. By the look on his face, he didn’t bother exploring the venue that far.
“Make it quick,” he says, a dark note to his tone. Like he thinks I might bolt, or be kidnapped, or cross paths with a divorce lawyer.
“Aye aye, Cap’n.” I give him a mock-salute that makes zero Petyrs laugh and scurry inside.
When I step into the venue, I find the place eerily quiet. It’s odd. Usually, there’s music playing, some basic wedding playlist featuring a whole lot of Bruno Mars and fifty shades of Ed Sheeran.
Not today, though.
The second I see Marc at the front desk, I immediately understand why. “Oh my God,” I gasp. “What happened to your eye?!”
Marc lifts his face and finally sees me. “Sammi?” he says, a note that sounds suspiciously like relief in his voice. “Is that you?”
“Of course it’s me.”
But then I get closer, and I realize why he had to ask. His eye isn’t just black—it’s completely swollen shut. There’s an ugly purple bruise blooming around the socket. It must make it impossible for him to wear his glasses.
“Jesus,” I whisper. “Did you pick a fight with the florist’s truck?”
He doesn’t smile. Another weird detail. He’s usually the number one fan of my stupid jokes. “It’s nothing,” he says quickly.
“Like hell it isn’t!” I take in the crust on his cut lip, the dark shadow on his jaw. “Marc, what happened?”
He doesn’t meet my gaze. “Nothing,” he repeats. “Just… a disagreement. With a supplier.”
“Which supplier?” I ask, disbelieving. “We deal inweddings,Marc. I mean, yeah, it can get intense, but last I checked, we didn’t start doing business with the freaking mafia.”
His face goes pale at that. “What do you need, Sammi?” he says, seriously looking like he might throw up. “If you’re here for Bob, I can call him down and?—”
