The ceremony starts in a few hours.
Before I can set my phone back down and make good on my plan to roll over and go back to sleep, a notification pops up at the top of my screen.
Paige Blackwell posted to her Instagram stories
Because I’m obviously a dumbass who can’t leave well enough alone, I click on it and am instantly taken to Paige’s latest IG post. A series of strategically angled selfies of Paige sitting in a chair, surrounded by a small team of hair and make-up artists, getting ready for Millie’s wedding. The caption reads:
My bestie is getting married today! I love you Millie, you’re going to be a beautiful bride!
I let my gaze move past Paige, finding Millie in the background. She’s sitting in a chair, plate of barely touched food balanced on her lap, staring off into space while everyone celebrates around her.
She looks beautiful.
And fucking miserable.
Fuck.
Pushing myself out of bed, I take a quick shower and shave before putting on the same gray suit I wore to dinner on Friday night, pairing it with a lighter gray shirt and dark blue tie.
Making sure I have my wallet and house keys, I decide to splurge on an Uber instead of taking the subway. Locking up, I take the elevator down to the lobby and step out onto the sidewalk, just as my phone buzzes in the breast pocket of my suit. Keeping one eye on traffic to make sure I don’t miss my ride, I pull it out.
Paige: I’m at the Hawthorne, all alone… you want to meet me here instead of the church? We can fuck in Millie’s bed before the ceremony.
Jesus Christ.
Me: No
Spotting my ride—a late model, silver BMW, I hit send before stepping off the curb, lifting a hand to make sure the driver sees me. He gives me a short,I see youhonk before dive-bombing his way across three lanes of traffic. As soon as he stops, I open the door and climb in, rather than wait for him to get out and do it for me.
“St. Patrick’s Cathedral, right?” he says, throwing me a quick over the shoulder look before shooting back into traffic.
“Yeah.” My phone buzzes in my hand again and I contemplate throwing it out the window. Instead, I pull up my texts.
Paige: When did you stop being fun, Mercer?
When I found out you’re screwing around with your cousin’s fiancé.
Me: Sorry—I’m just a lowly peasant, Paige. I don’t have the luxury of waltzing into the social event of the year, fashionably late.
Paige: You were late to dinner, Friday night. It didn’t seem to bother you then. But I guess it’s different since you were with Millie.
Me: I wasn’t with her. I stopped at the restaurant bar to check in on one of my employees and she happened to be there. That’s it.
Even though it’s the truth it sounds like a lie. Feels like one too, considering the things I said to her that night.
I can see your nipples throughthe fabric of yourdress,Princess. They went stiff the second you realized who you were sitting next to…
Paige: And the two of you fought?
Did Millie and I fight?
I guess you can call it that.
Me: When have you ever seen us in a room together and we’re not fighting??
Paige: You weren’t fighting the night I found you in her room at Gwen’s bachelorette party. What were you two doing in there, all alone? You never did tell me...
Me: Talking. We were just talking.
