Maybe that’s why he isn’there.
The murmurs swell like a tide threatening to drag me under as I reach the halfway mark, and the space at the altar shifts.
I blink.
Someone moves into the groom’s position.
Not George.
His—
Christ.His father.
Harald Highcourt.
Harry to the headlines and the family, Mr. Highcourt to everyone else.
He steps forward like he’s claiming territory, his silver hair styled pristinely, his close-cropped beard freshly trimmed.
Dark green eyes follow me like a hawk as I walk down the aisle in the middle of the church, flicking to my father beside me only briefly before turning back to me.
His suit is perfectly cut charcoal, likely nicer than his son’s would have been, and his shoulders are straight, straining slightly as he clasps his hands in front of him like this is some kind of business meeting.
Which, I guess, it is.
It’s been years since I’ve seen him up close, and he’s older now, sharper — not a hint of softness as he stands there. He looks carved from something colder than marble, and the sight of him here, in George’s place, looking likethat, sends a rush of confused heat down my spine.
My steps falter as more confusion crashes over me.
The congregation erupts in quiet chatter, whispers turning to gasps that turn to something close to hushed hysteria.
My father’s grip on my arm becomes bruising.
My stomach flips violently.
And Harry’s eyes cling to mine as I reach the final stretch of the aisle.
No smile, no warmth, just a cool and calculating assessment that strips me bare despite the layers of silk.
God, he must be nearly twenty years older than me — but somehow, impossibly,stupidlymore magnetic than George ever was.
There’s a gravitas to him that his son never had, the kind of controlled power that pulls you in even when you know you should run.
My hands shake.
My chest feels like it’s being crushed under the weight of lace and too little oxygen.
The room narrows to his face and the thunderous pounding in my ears as I take the few steps up to my would-be father-in-law.
I open my mouth to ask where George is, what’s happening, why this feels like stepping off a cliff?—
Mr. Highcourt looksrattled.
His jaw tenses, and he shifts his eyes from me to my father. “George isn’t coming.”
The words swirl in my head.
The floor tilts sideways.
