Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
“Curious …what’s so awful about me that you won’t even try?” I asked.
He answered my question with one of his own. “Who said it had anything to do with you?”
In ten minutes, I’m to marry a broken, callous stranger of a man.
I thought I could do it, but now …
The idea of standing in front of hundreds of people, looking Slade in his hate-filled eyes, and promising to love and cherish and spend the rest of my life with him makes me want to scream, cry, and throw up—at the same time.
Mom begins to say something, only to be interrupted by a knock at the door. Sighing, she cocks her head and gives me a once over.
“You’re going to paint a smile on your face and be the happiest, most beautiful bride this world has ever seen,” she says. “Whatever’s going on, whatever your reservations are, we’ll deal with them when you get back from your honeymoon.”
I don’t tell her there is no honeymoon—a decision Slade and I came to quickly and easily during the planning of this entire charade. My parents are under the impression we’re spending ten days at some secluded resort in Bali, only we’ll be in Palm Beach, each of us doing our own thing like two passing ships in the night.
“Deep breath, Campbell. You’re going to be fine,” Mom says before heading to the door. “Oh, Oliver. I wasn’t expecting you.”
My heart comes to a hard stop. Is he coming to tell me Slade is calling the wedding off?
“I forgot to give Campbell this earlier,” I hear him say. A couple of hours ago, he stopped by with a gift from Slade. Months back, my mother reminded us it’s tradition for the bride and groom to exchange gifts on their wedding day. I got him a vintage pocket watch. He got me a gold and diamond pendant with our wedding date inscribed on the back. “It’s a letter from Delia.”
“Thank you. I’ll be sure she gets it,” Mom says.
“We’re about to head out. The car is waiting,” Oliver tells her.
“We’ll be on our way shortly,” she tells him. When she returns to my side, she hands me a white envelope with my name on it. “Don’t read it now. We don’t have time.”
Nor would I want to—I’m already emotional. Reading the words of a recently passed woman as I’m about to marry her beloved son would only complicate my already complicated feelings on the matter.
Placing the envelope in my suitcase, I carefully zip the compartment shut.
After the funeral last month, I was sitting outside talking to Oliver when he casually mentioned that Slade would always talk me up to his mom. He would gush about me because he knew how happy it made her that we were getting married. I realized then that it must have been why Delia claimed Slade “adored” me that day.
Oliver also shared that Delia had been sick for a while and that Slade had kept that from me at Delia’s request. She didn’t want to steal an ounce of our (perceived) thunder.
My heart softened—albeit only a tad—for Slade after learning all he had done to keep his mother happy and honor her wishes in her darkest hours. I thought for sure there was hope for us, that he had a sliver of kindness somewhere in him.
But after he said what he said last night, my hope is gone.
“I need to grab something from my room, but your father and bridesmaids are all downstairs waiting,” my mom announces as she slides her phone into her pearl clutch and snaps it shut. “Why don’t you head down there now? I’ll meet you in a moment.”
With that, she heads through the connecting door, into the adjacent suite.
I give myself one final glance in the full-length mirror, hardly recognizing the stranger staring back. My long blonde hair has been pressed into shiny, retro waves that waterfall down my shoulders. My face has been contoured and highlighted to the point that I look like I’m wearing an Instagram filter. Feathery faux lashes accent my eyes and beneath my ivory dress, my curves are squeezed tight with shapewear.
The overpowering aroma of Chanel Number Five lingers in the air, capturing me in a prison-like cloud of rose, jasmine, lily of the valley, vanilla, and sandalwood. My mother insisted I wear it since she and my grandmother wore it on their respective wedding days and it was both tradition and good luck. She spritzed it all over me before I could protest.
Gathering the hem and train of my dress, I head to the hallway alone. My heart inches into my throat with each step towards the elevator bay, each beat a reminder that I could just … run.
I could leave right now.
Not sure where I’d go, but I could figure it out.