I don't want people to talk about it for years. I want it to be ours. But I know there’s not one damn thing I can say right now that will change anything. This man is absolute, unmovable, and unconcerned how that affects the people around him.
The waiter returns to take our order, and Dean shifts into charming host mode. Telling stories about business deals. Acting like he didn't just dismantle my entire wedding vision in under five minutes. I smile. I nod. When dinner arrives, I pretend to care about the halibut. But inside, everything has gone very quiet, like anything non-essential has been sucked out of me for the time being.
When the meal is over and we’re leaving the restaurant, Dean shakes my hand. He glances at my engagement ring again like it's offended him in some way.
"It was a pleasure to meet you," he says.
I nod and say the same. I'm lying. I assume he is, too. Then he turns to Asher. The handshake is firm enough that it looks uncomfortable. "I approved of her on paper," Dean says.
My smile freezes. On paper?
"But meeting her confirms what you told me for once." His gaze shifts to me, then right back to Asher. "She's perfect."
Perfect for what? My God. If this man says I have childbearing hips, I will launch myself through the nearest window.
"Nothing like the over-the-top whores you've introduced me to in the past," Dean adds.
Ah. Well then. I actually feel bad for any of Asher's past girlfriends who endured even five minutes with this insufferable blowhard. Asher shoots me a mortified glance, but I pretend to be oblivious.
He's quiet as we walk downstairs. He says nothing until we pull away from the restaurant. "I'm sorry," he says. "He's just... he's a lot."
A lot. He keeps saying that. Like his dad has a personality quirk as opposed to an arrogance that is as close to unbearable as any I’ve ever encountered. What that man just did over dinner was a systematic dismantling of everything Asher and I had discussed.
And my guess is that he's going to keep right on steamrolling both of us.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
JULIE
The run-upto our wedding weekend flies by in an endless list of decisions I am not allowed to make. Evangelina, Dean's wedding planner, took over with the efficiency of a military general. She calls me twice a week with updates. My input is not required, which is clear since I'm informed as opposed to consulted.
The venue is the Four Seasons ballroom. Not Chihuly. The guest list has ballooned to three hundred. Not forty. The style of dress I’d dreamed of, a simple silk sheath from the small boutique down the block from my store, is harshly vetoed and replaced with a haute couture ballgown. When I push her to tell me the cost, I nearly vomit. It's close to a quarter of a million dollars.
"Having high-end haute couture created in eight weeks was a big ask. It's worth the price because of the designer's name. Plus, it will photograph better than an off-the-rack dress ever could," Evangelina says when I try to protest. "Trust me, darling. You'll thank me when you see the pictures."
I won't. But I don't say that. Asher apologizes constantly. He brings me flowers. Takes me to dinner. Tells me it'll all be worth it. Reminds me how much I love him and how much he loves me.
"Just get through the wedding," he says. "Then it's just us again."
I want to believe him. I really do. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that marrying a man I haven’t yet known for six months feels riskier now than it did when he asked me.
The night before the wedding, we have the rehearsal at the church Dean selected. It's massive. Ornate. The kind of place where presidents get married, not regular people.
As I stand at the altar in a white Chanel suit, after practicing my walk down an aisle that felt a mile long, all I can think is, this isn't me.
Asher holds my hands in his and silently promises me that everything will be okay. I know he's stressed about what this is doing to me, but his father and the machine he unleashed on our wedding are an unstoppable force.
After the rehearsal, there's dinner back at Dean's mansion in Bellevue. My mother has been in town for the last week. She sits next to Jamie, looking like she's struggling to stay awake. Her conditional approval of Asher is less firm than before. I tell myself it's the circus of a wedding that's raised her hackles. At least that's my hope. When dinner concludes, Dean approaches me.
"Julie," he says, his voice cutting through the conversation. "A word?"
It's not a question. Shit. Bile churns in my gut as I set down my champagne glass and follow him to his home office. It'smassive and dark, lined with first editions and polished wood. The faint scent of cigars, whiskey, and furniture polish hangs in the air. Everything has a place. Every book. Every pen. Every folder stacked on his desk as if disorder is intolerable.
He closes the door behind us. "I wanted to give you your wedding gift privately," he says.
He goes to his desk and pulls a folder from the top drawer. Then he holds it out to me. I take it. The folder is heavier than it should be. Inside are documents. Legal documents. My hands start shaking before I even finish reading the first page.
