I told Damian the truth. He walked away without acknowledging it. So, I guess we’re…done? Jason propositioned me, and I made the choice to keep that from Faith, because otherwise, I’ll destroy her big day. And Amber got to explode a bomb right in my face about Damian’s career, which I apparently derailed.
How is this my life?
22
DAMIAN
I focus on the boutonnière.An ivory rose. Slightly too open.
The outer petals are already curling inward at the edges in a way no one else would notice. The florist should have chosen one a day younger. This one will brown by the reception. It will hold for photographs, certainly. It will look pristine under curated light. But it will begin to wilt.
Like truth.
Detail. Fixate on detail. Don’t think about what Perry told you in the hallway.
The ceremony space is breathtaking, as curated wealth often is. Ivory chairs in perfect rows, silk ribbons tied at identical angles, floral arches heavy with trailing greenery and peonies that smell faintly sweet under the late-afternoon sun. The grass has been trimmed so evenly that it looks combed. The aisle runner lies flat without a single ripple.
The air is crisp. Fall has arrived properly now. The kind of day that makes you believe in beginnings. The kind of day that convinces people the future is clean and uncluttered.
The kind of day that is a pretty lie.
The chair is uncomfortable in a deliberate way—too straight-backed, too firm. Designed to look good in photographs.
Jason stands at the altar, shoulders back, chin lifted, trying to look composed. He does not look nervous. He looks triumphant. That has always been his posture in moments of acquisition.
Stop. Focus.
The string quartet tunes behind me. Violins in careful, rising notes. The sun hits the crystal chandeliers hanging from the open pavilion ceiling, refracting light in disciplined shards across polished wood. It glints off cuff links, off champagne flutes resting on trays at the back.
I catalog it all. The symmetry. The spacing. The floral density. The precise angle of the groomsmen’s shoulders. Because if I let my mind wander, I will spiral.
You’re the father of my twins.
My sons. Hidden in plain sight. Delivered by my hands. Named by my mouth.
And she said nothing. For months.
I grip the edge of my program tighter than necessary. The paper is thick, embossed. Faith insisted on embossing. The edges press faintly into my palm. I focus on the texture.
The music shifts. Heads turn. Perry steps into view.
The maid of honor dress is blush, fitted but elegant, structured without being severe. It drapes along her frame in a way that makes the light cling to her. The fabric catches at her waist and releases along her hips with quiet grace.
She looks stunning. Not at all like a woman who just shattered a man’s understanding of his own life in a hallway twenty minutes ago.
My body reacts anyway.
The dress traces her waist in a way that pulls a violent thought through my head—if I had my druthers, I would take her apart in that fabric. Even now, furious and confused.
God. I am not proud of that thought. But my anger and my want are braided so tightly I cannot separate them.
She doesn’t look at me. Not once. I doubt she’d hold it together if she did.
The ceremony begins. The officiant speaks of partnership and shared futures. Of patience and grace. Of the sanctity of honesty.
Honesty. I almost laugh.
Jason clears his throat before speaking. That small, unnecessary sound pulls me back to the present. He looks composed, but I know him well enough to see the tension in the set of his jaw. He’s performing confidence. He has always been adept at it. The posture of certainty is something he learned early—inherited, perhaps, from both sides.
