Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
“Amelia Astrid isn’t the only eligible society bride on the market.”
My chest tightened.
He tilted his head to the side. “How is that sweet little sister of yours? What was her name? Olivia?”
My fingers curled into a fist, refusing to take the bait. Fuck.
As I stormed out of the club, I reached into my jacket pocket for my phone to call my security team and double Olivia’s guard.
CHAPTER 3
AMELIA
Don’t react.
Do not lose it in front of these people.
Their eyes are on you.
Do not further embarrass the family.
Do not show them you care.
For the love of God, don’t let anyone know the only thing you feel is relief.
With a shove, I pushed myself out of this stranger’s grasp. Ignoring my sister holding my bouquet of soulless white lilies, I turned and marched back up the cathedral’s aisle, away from my mother, who was still trying to make excuses for whatever had just happened.
Without a second thought, I left my fiancé, who was fuming with visible rage.
I also left Mr. Manwarring, a man I knew only by his reputation as a ruthless sociopath.
The whispers about him were all very mysterious. The only thing the gossip could agree on was that he was the heir to a multi-billion-dollar fortune that was built around whisky and, if rumors were to be believed, questionable practices.
If I wasn’t getting married, there was no reason for me to be standing at the altar like a fool in front of so many of the most affluent people in New York City.
I didn’t look back at Mr. Manwarring.
Or at Mr. Dubois, whom I was supposed to be marrying, and who had shockingly stood by and let the disruption happen.
Or even my mother, who had called off the wedding instead of demanding Mr. Manwarring leave.
The three of them created this mess; they could deal with it. I was already balancing on the knife’s edge between a panic attack and a full-blown mental break.
The layers of tulle, silk, and God only knew what else the monstrosity of a wedding dress was constructed of swished obnoxiously as I forced my way past the guests, many of whom had risen to their feet to watch the commotion or try to offer aid in some way.
The cathedral’s pews were filled with a few hundred people, all in their couture gowns and formal tuxedos. Everyone appeared to wear the same fashionable beige and seasonal pastels that were so muted it was as if they had sun bleached the life out of their clothes before they got dressed. Passing through that colorless hall was like being suffocated by a drab, untreated canvas.
I wanted to run. I wanted to hide, but that would make the scene worse, and add fuel to the Page Six fire that was going to engulf my reputation.
I knew better.
I was still a daughter of the Astrid family, and I had been taught to handle everything with dignity and grace. So, my head high, I ignored the murmurs and whispers, tamped down the warring emotions in my stomach, and made my way down the marble aisle, alone. My entire body was tensed to the point of pain so no one would see me shaking.
Well, not alone for long. The delicate clacking of the obscene number of pearls my mother wore followed me. She owed me an explanation, but I doubted I’d get one. Not one that would make up for this. I couldn’t even imagine what was whispered in her ear for her to have allowed this to happen.
No, she would no doubt make whatever just happened here my fault. God forbid she ever took ownership of any problem or inconvenience.
She was the kind of woman who, if she dropped a fork at a table, had a server fired. If she missed an appointment, a maid was dismissed for altering her date book. And, if she had a single white hair or a wrinkle at her age, the world was against her, and she took it out on the nearest salesclerk or waitstaff.
She’d gone through ten hairdressers in a month before someone told her that silver hair was all the rage in Paris. Then it was a matter of dyeing her natural gray, which was more a snow white, to a distinguished sterling shade. No one had the nerve to point out she matched the silverware, and the shade was far too ashen to complement her warm skin tone.
It made her look like an evil queen in a child’s fairy-tale book.
And now, her daughter’s wedding was ruined.
Heads were going to roll.
Not out of some maternal instinct to protect or avenge me, her daughter, the bride.
No, this would be seen as an embarrassment to the family and a slight aimed at her.
My feelings about it were inconsequential.
For a moment, I wondered if I could be fired or dismissed or even let go from being her daughter, the perfect society woman. She could fire me, replace me with a slimmer, chicer model, and I could be free to live my life. It was the perfect fantasy. She would enter my room one afternoon and tell me that biological daughters were so last season, and I was being replaced with a newer model from Tokyo.