Elias, clad in his usual three-piece glory, is standing at the mouth of the hedge maze, which starts in the heart of the rose garden. In spring, this place will come alive. Multicolored roses will bloom, their heavenly fragrance washing over me whenever I visit. I can hear Levi’s gigglesas I chase him through the maze, my siblings and friends squabbling behind me, having afternoon tea.
But now, the atmosphere in the rose garden is somber.
Belle speaks to Maxwell softly, my brother looking years older in his wheelchair by the central fountain. Rex paces in front of them, raking his fingers through his hair. A woman with a cello sits in the far corner, her eyes darting from side to side, clearly petrified.
Thank goodness Levi is at a playdate. I can hold myself together, but I’m afraid one look at his innocent eyes and I’ll crack.
An imposing man with dark hair and a square jaw, wearing all black with a white clerical collar at his neck, is speaking with Elias.
He must be Elias’s priest.
Does he know this is a farce? That I’m being forced to do this?
The priest glances up, his sharp eyes catching mine. A small frown creases his forehead, and he rolls down his shirtsleeves, covering up the swath of ink on both forearms.
Tattoos. This holy man has tattoos.
Elias whips his head in my direction.
His lips stop moving.
For a brief flash, they part. A sharp inhale. Those green eyes flare with heat. His hand flexes at his side.
The priest says something, but the enigmatic monster doesn’t appear to hear him.
His attention is one hundred percent solely riveted on me.
A strange swooping sensation appears in my stomach, followed by my quickening pulse.
Nerves. It has to be nerves. After all, arranged marriage or not, I’ve never been married before.
Someone hands me a bouquet, breaking my eye contact with him. Beautiful blood-red roses. My favorite.
I thank Agnes, who gives me a sad, sympathetic smile.
Maxwell wheels himself over. “One word from you, and I’ll shoot the bastard dead. You don’t need to do this.”
“I have to. It’s the right choice.”
My brother stares at me, his eyes softening. “We’ll get you out.”
“I know you will.” I smile, my voice thick.
He adjusts his chair, lining it next to me. I look at him in surprise.
“What?Shit show marriage or not, it’s not every day my sister gets married. With Dad not here, I’m walking—no—wheeling you down the aisle.”
A snort slips out of me, and he chuckles. We begin our trip up the makeshift aisle. It feels like walking up to a guillotine.
It’s then I hear it.
The mournful strains of the cello stop me in my tracks.
It’s not Pachelbel’s “Canon in D” or “Bridal Chorus” by Wagner. It’s not Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” or the other usual suspects.
Instead, it’s a melody emblazoned inside my heart. Every note I’ve long memorized. A piece I stopped listening to after a certain boy disappeared from my life when I was fifteen.
Beethoven’s “Für Elise.”
