Even before Pierre had danced with her for the first time at her Shooting Star debutante cotillion two years before.
She clung to Dieter’s hand, gripping it like he might be able to pull her out of the ocean she was drowning in.
Later, all this rage and pain would vomit out of her heart, but for now, she had to shove it all down and snap her shiny suit of armor shut.
Damn it,this was Wulfie’swedding.
She said, slowly, looking straight into Dieter’s worried, gray eyes, “I have to plan this wedding. Everything has to be perfect. Right now, I have to think about thatandnothing else.”
Dieter’s eyes were wider than usual, and his deep breathing might have been sympathy or repressing homicidal impulses. “What did he tell you?”
“Nothing,” Flicka said, shaking off his hand and sitting back. “I have a wedding to pull off.” She needed to be angry, notgutted.Anger would give her the energy to get through the day. “Help me concentrate on this wedding.”
“You know that he has lied to Wulfram and many others, trying to create chaos and ruin this wedding and their lives together, right? Anything that he said to you might have been a ploy to cause conflict at Wulfram’s wedding.”
No, it wasn’t. There were photos. There were documents. The chances of everything being faked and photoshopped were infinitesimal.
Indeed, with this new information, so many contradictions about Pierre made sense.
Her father hadn’t lied to her, but he had smirked when he handed over the papers that had torn her life apart.
But it was true that her father might have chosen today to kidnap her and hand over this fresh Hell in an envelope because he wanted to screw with Flicka’s head and damage or cancel Wulfram’s wedding.
She told Dieter, “Yes.”
“Wulfram deserves a perfect wedding,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, breathing more easily.
“How can I help?”
I just have to get through it.
Flicka said, “When we get to the hotel, get his clothes, and we’ll go straight to the church. They’re in a garment bag in his closet, pressed and ready to go. Everything is in there, like a kit. Just grab the bag.”
“I will,” Dieter said. “I’m here for you. Whatever you need.”
Flicka grabbed his hand again and held on. She couldn’t force any more words through her aching throat, so she clung to Dieter’s fingers and texted stupid napkin suppliers with her other hand.
Dressing The Bride
Flicka von Hannover
Twelve hours.
I have to survive twelve hours.
I have to confront Pierre here, in Switzerland,
not in the fortress of the Prince’s Palace in Monaco.
It has to be done in Montreux.
After being rescued, clutching Dieter’s hand so tightly that she was worried about his fingers afterward, and regaining her composure in the car, Flicka got to work.
She was hiding out with Rae and her friend, Lizzy, down in the bride’s dressing room in the church’s basement.
Old incense fumes clung to the couch where she sat perfectly still so she wouldn’t wrinkle her white bridesmaid’s dress. The mint she was sucking slowly overwhelmed the whiskey on her tongue, but she wanted another drink, badly. She was alternately talking and texting and swiping on her phone so fast that her fingers burned and skipped on the glass.
