Chapter 67
Bree’s voice is quick, clipped with the same urgency she’d use if the room were on fire–which, metaphorically, it might as well be. “I think I’ll go take a shower. Your turn to plan. I am sick of planning our sham,” she blurts out.
“Don’t you dare!” I tell her.
“Double dare me?” she laughs.
“Wait!” The word bursts from me, loud and desperate. “You can’t leave me with her!”
Bree’s back is to me, her shoulders set in determination, but she pauses just long enough to toss a glance over her shoulder. “She’s your mother, not mine.” The words are swift, like the swipe of a claw, severing any hope I had of her staying. “Tell your mother I’ll be back soon,” she adds.
My hands clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms as I watch her retreat. Her eagerness to escape the wedding insanity my mother has started is palpable, even funny in a way that makes my chest ache with a wild mix of amusement and panic. Yet the joke’s on me as she leaves me to fend for myself.
I’m left standing amidst the ruins of our ‘perfect day‘, the irony not lost on me. If only these catalogs could plan a way out of this mess–a real–life escape route printed on their glossy pages. But alas, they’re just paper dreams, and I’m still here, knee–deep in the madness of the mess I created.
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Chapter 67
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My mother’s imminent return hangs over me like a storm cloud ready to burst with endless chatter of cake toppers and calligraphy fonts. A groan escapes me, as I peer around at the wedding paraphernalia that threatens to swallow me whole.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, raking a hand through my hair. Max, my ever–reliable scapegoat, has been conveniently whisked away by my father, so I can’t even use him to escape. her. An excuse to leave would’ve been golden right now- anything to escape the impending doom of another round of decisions over which I hold no sway.
With a swift glance around the eerily quiet library, I push myself off the bookcase. My eyes dart to the library door, wondering what my chances are of her not seeing me. My footsteps are light, almost silent, as I peer out the door. I don’t see her, but I can sense her, the floral perfume that always announces my mother’s presence mingling with the scent of old books in the library. Her voice, light and carefree as she debates the merits of flowers for the umpteenth time, nudges me into action. No more catalog purgatory for me.
“Peonies have such a lush fullness to them, don’t you think?” she muses aloud to some poor maid just as I seize the moment. I make a mad dash for my office.
But as fate or family betrayal would have it, there’s Damian, leaning smugly in his doorway, the very picture of knowing mischief. “Running from Mom?” he chuckles, his eyes gleaming as he catches me trying to escape.
“Damian,” I growl under my breath.
“Can’t handle a little wedding planning?” His smirk widens, the barb hitting closer to home than he realizes.
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Chapter 67
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I want to snap at him and unleash the frustration boiling beneath my skin, but I hold back. Instead, I shoot him a glare meant to silence any other snide comments and press on toward my office. Only he steps into my path.
“Own up to your lie, and she’ll leave you alone,” Damian’s voice slices through my thoughts. My hands clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms.
“But then, you’d be breaking her heart.” His smirk grows, and I can almost see the fangs he hides behind that too–perfect smile.
I’m barely a step past Damian’s when I whirl on him, rage simmering just below the surface. “This is your doing, I know it was you that rang her and told her to come help plan this!” My finger jabs in his direction, accusing, my voice a harsh whisper to keep the confrontation between us.
Damian snickers and returns to leaning against the frame of his door, an eyebrow arched, his stance infuriatingly casual. “I thought you would own up to your lie and get rid of the rogue stranger that puts you all at risk. Instead, you decided to keep up this facade and move her into your bed!”
I corner Damian in the shadowy hallway, my pulse throbbing with betrayal. “So, it was you!” My voice is a blade of ice, sharp enough to draw blood. He simply shrugs, and the casual dismissal of his gesture ignites a firestorm within me.
“I may have said something,” he admits
nonchalantly, and my hands clench involuntarily, itching for the satisfying crack of knuckles against his jaw.
