Chapter 3

Romilly's POV

He'd said ten.

I was too nervous to sleep, and by nine-thirty I had Mom take me downstairs to wait on the sidewalk in front of the porch.

By noon, Lucan still hadn't shown.

I called him. He sent me straight to voicemail.

Mom came out again and again to tell me to come inside and warm up. Every time, I shook my head.

Getting out of the house this once had taken everything I had. After today, I probably wouldn't make it out again.

Finally, at one o'clock, he called to say they were on their way.

Mom was so angry her face went white. I held her hand and talked to her for a long time before she managed to wipe the look off her face.

The moment I was lifted into the back seat, Nerissa turned around and gave me a sugary little smile.

"I'm so sorry, Romilly. Lucan didn't exactly let me get much sleep last night. I just couldn't drag myself out of bed this morning."

Under the blanket, my hands curled into fists.

Lucan folded my wheelchair into the trunk, slid in behind the wheel, and glanced at me in the rearview mirror. Then he said to her, flat and cold:

"Why are you explaining yourself to her?"

My chest tightened a little. I just waved through the window at my mother, still standing out in the snow.

Lucan drove fast—gas, brake, gas, brake—and my stomach rolled with every jolt.

I clenched my teeth and didn't make a sound.

I thought about the summer we were sixteen, when he'd just gotten his license. He used to sneak his dad's Lincoln out of the garage and drive me down to the lake. He knew I got carsick, so he was gentle with every press of the gas, smooth with every stop.

I'd thrown up in cabs and buses my whole life. But in his car, I never got sick. Not once.

So when he slammed on the brakes again and I couldn't brace myself—when I crashed into the back of the front seat and everything in my stomach surged into my throat—

I couldn't hold back a small, choked sound.

He heard it. He laughed again.

"Quinlan, you don't actually think I'm gonna baby you like I did eight years ago, do you? Drive like a hearse so you don't get queasy?"

I quietly wiped the corner of my eye and kept my voice steady.

"No. Nerissa's the one you should be careful with now. She's your fiancée."

He snorted. "You got that right."

Then he floored it.

My back slammed into the seat again, so hard it went numb.

But the corners of my mouth curved up anyway.

Hate was fine. At least while I was still alive, there was some small corner of his heart that still had my name on it.

It wasn't long before we pulled up on Oak Street, in front of a bridal boutique with gold lettering on the glass and a single white gown glowing in the window.

When we got out, he was the one who carried me.

The second I was back in his arms, I almost lost it.

Luckily, he was fast. A few long strides and he'd dropped me into the wheelchair. Then, like he'd touched something filthy, he held out his hand to Nerissa for wet wipes and scrubbed his hands with one after another.

Nerissa gave me an awkward little smile.

"Sorry, Romilly. Lucan's kind of a germaphobe. If any woman besides me touches him, he gets grossed out."

I kept my head down and my lips pressed together and pretended I hadn't seen or heard any of it.

Then I let them push me, arm in arm, through the boutique's glass doors.

A consultant in a black sheath dress ushered us into a private fitting suite—white velvet sofas, a raised platform with a three-way mirror, and racks of gowns in every conceivable shade of white.

Before the consultant could even ask, Lucan spoke up. "Lace. Lots of it. Long sleeves, a cathedral train. The bigger, the better. She likes it dramatic."

My chest pulled tight.

He used to hate lace. When we were seventeen, flipping through a bridal magazine at the corner deli, he’d tapped a plain satin slip dress. That one. Lace looks like a tablecloth. You don't need anything fancy, Romy.

It wasn't hard to guess who had changed his mind.

Nerissa vanished behind the heavy curtain with two assistants. Twenty minutes later, she stepped out, wrapped in ivory lace from wrist to floor, the train spilling down the platform steps. Lucan just stared at her in a long, heavy silence—which was an answer all its own.

The consultant returned carrying a silver tray. She handed Nerissa a cup of hot honey-lemon tea—"For the mama-to-be," she cooed with a wink—then set a flute of champagne and a plate of macarons in front of me.

I didn't touch them. These days, I measured my water by the ounce. Sugar, salt, phosphorus—everything on that tray was essentially poison to me. A single glass of champagne would wipe out my fluid allowance for the entire day.

So I set the flute down and asked if I could just have a little water instead. Half a cup. No more.

I don't know why, but that was when Lucan snapped.

"You look like a skeleton, and you're on a diet?"

For a second, that flash of concern made my chest ache so badly it went numb. But only for a second. Then I smiled.

"Rafe likes me thin."

Rafe Kinsella. The boy Cordelia had picked out eight years ago to be the guy I cheated with.

I hadn't seen him once since Lucan left.

Lucan's face went dark, almost gray.

Nerissa laughed it off from up on the platform.

"Oh, don't take it personally, Romilly. In Sicily, turning down food someone offers you is basically slapping them in the face. When I tried a juice cleanse to fit into this dress, he yelled at me so many times."

She turned to him with a bright smile. "Right, babe? Tell her."

Lucan didn't look at her. He was already on his feet, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his coat.

"I need some air."

He didn't look at me again. He didn't look at her either. The bell over the front door jingled, and then he was gone.

The consultant murmured something about bringing out a few veils and slipped away after him, leaving the two of us alone in the suite.

I watched the curtain fall shut behind her, and my chest throbbed.

Had I ruined it again?

Ruined his new life. Ruined his new marriage.

The guilt had barely started to rise when Nerissa stepped down off the platform, gathered her train in one hand, picked up the cup of hot tea with the other—and threw it straight in my face.

"You little fake. You think I'm stupid? Playing the poor sick girl over and over so you can steal my fiancé!"