My fingers dig into my father’s arm until I can feel the bone straining beneath.
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t evenlookat me.
Instead, he stares ahead, as if he can conjure the Highcourt heir through sheer force of business necessity.
Because that’s all this is — a contract dressed up in lace and champagne and strangers here to congratulate me, or more accurately, whisper about me.
The stems of my bouquet go sticky in my palm from my death grip.
The dress, ivory silk with a fitted bodice that cinches my waist in before flaring out, felt perfect in the boutique. Now it’s just a beautiful, suffocating cage that squeezes my ribs until my breath comes shallow, accentuating every curve I’d rather not show.
I should’ve picked something looser.
I should’ve known.
Breathe, Elena. Just breathe. Maybe he’s blowing his nose, or?—
More whispers.
“Where is he?”
“Heard outside that he didn’t show up.”
“Well… can you blame him?”
The last one hits like a dagger between my shoulder blades, punching the minimal amount of air in my lungs out of me.
Sixteen-year-old me didn’t love George.
I didn’t even know him, hadn’t spoken a single word to him. But my parents had told me it was myduty— Highcourt Hotels needed a distillery partner, and our distillery needed their prestige.
“This marriage will secure our family’s place,”my mother had said, her voice clipped like she’d been talking about acquiring a piece of land rather than handing over her eldest daughter.
I’d agreed.
Not for them, never for them.
But for my little sister, Sarah.
If I went through with it, she wouldn’t have to.
So I never asked myself if I loved him. That wasn’t the point.
I glance desperately into the crowd, needing an anchor, searching for Ross. He’s been my best friend since I was ten, my safe place, my shoulder to cry on, but apparently George isn’t the only man pulling a disappearing act today. The familiar dark hair and crooked grin are nowhere to be found.
Instead, I find Sarah.
She’s in the front pew, a slash of emerald silk against the white and gold backdrop, her big brown eyes wide as saucers. Even with the empty space at the end of the aisle, I can’t bring myself to fully regret doing this, not when it’s for her.
She gives me a tiny shake of her head and a shrug, a silent communication that she doesn’t know where George is, and I swallow hard.
But I keep walking.
Heat creeps up my legs, swallowing me whole under the gown, beads of sweat collecting along my skin and making my thighs rub uncomfortably.
I feel too big, toomuch, the silk clinging to the swell of my hips and the curve of my breasts, every inch of me I’ve spent years trying to smooth and hide.
George likes his women like he likes his wine — slim, dry, nothing lingering.
