“I’m sorry for springing this on you,” Talia said, voice tight with guilt. “I know it’s last-minute. I know it’s a lot.”
I sighed then, resigned. “You said your mom is in the hospital. I’m not going to make this worse for you.”
“Still,” she said softly. “Thank you.”
The car is quiet. I keep my eyes on the road, one hand firm on the wheel, the other hand settling low on my belly. At seven months, I should probably look more pregnant than I do, but being fat has made it easier to hide than it has any right to be. Loose dresses, oversized coats, strategic layers. Most people see what they expect to see.
The baby shifts, slow and insistent, and with it comes a memory so filthy it nearly makes me miss the curve in the road.
A broad hand shoving my thighs wider. Silver at his temples. His mouth at my ear, his voice rough and wrecked as he drives into me and growls,Take it. That’s it. Let me fuck this sweet cunt properly.
My breath catches hard.
Then another flash, even worse. His hand wrapped around my throat, his cock buried so deep I can’t think, and that low, obscene promise against my skin:You feel like you were made to be split open on me.
I tighten my grip on the wheel and force the memory back down where it belongs.
It takes another minute before the trees finally thin and the estate appears ahead of me through the rain. I slow automatically.
Jesus.
The place rises out of the gray like something inherited instead of built. Massive stone walls. Slate roof. Tall windows throwing warm light over sweeping lawns and white event tents in the distance. Staff move briskly beneath umbrellas. Black sedans and SUVs line the curved drive like punctuation marks.
Not a venue.
A world.
For one stupid second, I wish I’d had time to steam my blazer properly. Or swap the earrings I threw on because they were theonly pair I could find without digging through a drawer I’ve been meaning to organize for three months.
Too late now.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a text from Talia.
You’re there?
I dictate a quickyesat the stop before the gate, then glance at the thick binder she messaged over with all the schedules, floor plans, contingency notes, and color-coded tabs only she would think to label with such aggressive cheerfulness under pressure.
The guard at the gatehouse checks my name against a list, then lifts his hand immediately for me to pass through. Respectful. Efficient. No wasted words.
A little knot tightens low in my stomach.
I drive up the long, curved lane, tires hissing softly over wet gravel, and park beside a row of glossy black vehicles that look permanently detailed. Then I sit there for a beat with the engine off and the rain tapping against the roof. The quiet inside the car feels temporary. Borrowed.
I check my lipstick in the mirror, smooth a hand over the front of my dress, and reach for the binder. On the cover, in clean black lettering, are the names:Camille Laurent and Ethan Sokolov
I stare at the second name for a moment longer than I mean to.
Sokolov.
It does something uneasy to the air in my lungs, though I can’t say why.
Ethan.
Of all the names in all of Manhattan, of course the groom has to share one with my ex. I stare at it a moment longer, thumb resting against the edge of the binder.
That’s probably a bad omen.
Or maybe I’m just tired, under-caffeinated, and driving into a luxury wedding for strangers while my nerves try to entertain themselves.
