“Because she’s a miserable cow and has always been jealous of you,” I say truthfully, then turn to Wills. “What’s the plan?”
“We’re going to set up plan B—”
“We never had a plan B,” Sadie interrupts.
“When your mum texted you yesterday, I was worried, so plan B was initiated. Jack will handle the guests and your mum. Sadie, Declan, or my dad will come to pick you up from this room in forty-five minutes. Annabelle, please help Jack, then text me when you’re done and I’ll meet you.”
We look at each other one last time, nodding, knowing we have to move fast before this becomes something bigger than it already is.
* * *
“What a nightmare.” I sigh and lean on Jack’s shoulder.
We had to quickly and quietly move everyone across the street to the public gardens, and it was nothing short of exhausting.
Now we’re waiting for security to escort Jack’s mum out.
I’m not sure how she thought she’d get away with sneaking in.
Maybe since she was sitting in the back, she thought no one would notice her. Hoping to get snapped in a few photos so Mrs. High Society wouldn’t be named a fool when the paps report her own daughter didn’t invite her to the wedding.
She walks out in her pristine Chanel suit, her head held high, without a care in the world.
Then, when she sees us standing in the corner, she pauses for a split second, scoffs, and turns her head up at us before continuing her walk of shame.
Jack laughs under his breath. “Can you believe her?”
“She’s a joke. Let’s go and make sure she gets in the car.”
Hand in hand, we follow behind her, stepping out in Place Vendôme to ensure she gets in the car that will usher her out of there.
The second we’re outside, he freezes in place, and before I have a second to ask what’s wrong, I see him.
Standing across the street is Jack’s spitting image…his dad.
“Did you have something to do with this?” Jack bellows. “Is that why you’ve been harassing me?”
I’m not sure Jack sees it, but I do. His dad’s face says it all as he walks toward us.
“Jack, let’s not make a scene, okay? I don’t think he knew.” I pull his arm to move, but instead, he steps closer to his dad.
John is by our side in a second, but I hold him off, confident that nothing will happen.
“Hello, Annabelle.”
“Mr. Peters.” I nod my head respectfully.
“Don’t you talk to her,” Jack growls, luckily lowering his voice, then turns to me, hurt lacing his voice. “Don’t talk to him, B.”
I rub his arm, then whisper, “I won’t, Jack. I’m sorry.”
“What are you doing here?” He directs himself back to his dad. “Why are you doing this after all this time?” he cries.
The average person may think Jack is mad, but my heart is breaking seeing the hurt pouring out of him.
“I promise, Jackie—”
“Don’t! Don’t you call me that.” He points his index finger at his dad. “You have no right, Stephen.”
