Phee Vanderhart
Forrest’s ex-wife
“I do. I object to this marriage.”
All the blood drained from my body as I heard her voice.
No. This couldn’t be happening. She’d always been nice to me. . .
“Forrest, you’re making ahugemistake. Please. I’m here to say what I should have a long time ago. You and I belong together. We need to fix this toxic cycle of breaking up, marrying other people, then making it up again. As themotherof your children I’m begging you to put a halt to this wedding and listen to what I have to say before you make a mistake you’ll regret forever.”
And now Phee was crying, big fat photogenic tears rolling down her beautiful face, andhow dare shebe begging for sympathy at my own wedding that she was ruining.
“Security!” I cried, but the words came out as an undignified squeak.
Surely Forrest would say it even louder, speak for me when I was too choked with indignation and humiliation.
I knew what people said about him and his ex-wife, of course. How could I not? Music’s ultimate on and off couple. Already on their third breakup before I was even born. The hard-loving, hard-fighting couple who once got kicked out of the Grammys for throwing drinks at each other.
Howdareshe try to turn my wedding into a cinematic moment for her, the insane, self-deluded bitch—
But Forrest wasstill looking at her.
“One moment of your time,” Phee said. “That’s all I ask for.”
Surely now was when Forrest would call for security, order her to be hauled out of his wedding by her beautiful chestnut hair.
His head turned and he finally looked atmeagain.
“Birdie, can you give us a minute?”
The entire church was salivating silently. And I could tell what part I’d been relegated to.
I was now the bit piece, the obstacle to their epic passionate love story.
And I should have been sad. I was dimly aware that when the pulse-pounding adrenaline wore off that I was going to be devastated, that the pain was going to floor me, the rejection hitting harder and deeper and more brutal than anything I’d ever experienced, but now? Now all I felt was rage.
Rage that this man I’d devoted everything to, had loved with every fiber of my being, was giving me a “hold up, let me consider my options,” speech on my wedding day.
“Give you a minute for what?” I snapped, grabbing my bouquet from where it sat like a prize on the jeweled table.“To talk to your ex-wife? In the middle of our wedding?”
“I need aminute,” Forrest repeated, raising an eyebrow but not answering the question. “To talk to Phee. Wait here.”
Oh, he was a cool, unflappable bastard, all right. That was how life had gone for fucking Forrest Davies-Jones, hadn’t it?
He was the kind of man who could say “wait here” to his fiancée and a church full of people, and expect them to do it.
Forrest didn’t even wait to see if I agreed, because his eyes were already locked on Phee, his body turned towardher.
I hit his broad chest with the bouquet, watching as the beautiful, perfectly chosen pink cherry petals flew off, clustering on his tuxedo front, sticking to his bow tie.
I was going tosavethat bouquet forever. I even had a shadow box especially for it.
“I’m not going to wait here! Are you marrying me or not?”
My breathing was ragged, raw, sounding to my fevered ears like the only thing in the cathedral.
Was anyone in this whole church here for me? I was an only child and had been raised by my grandmother. This was the event of the season, but who was here for me? It felt like they were all Forrest’s friends and associates. So many Broadway stars, a movie producer, tech billionaires, real estate moguls.
