Page 14 of Waiting for You

I'd loaded the most superficial version of myself into that box and fired it straight at his heart. He would've opened that box, read my cruel words, and swallowed the lie whole, because I'd engineered the note to be believed. I never reached out to correct it. I never called him in the middle of the night to confess: None of that was real. I was just trying to keep your dreams alive.

I just let the lie become his reality.

He would hate me. And God knew he had every right to.

FOUR

SLOANE

The rehearsal dinner had finally arrived. And by the time I dragged myself back to my apartment to change, I'd been on my aching feet for hours.

I started my morning with the floral arrangements, making sure the install crew showed up on schedule, the hidden wires held, and the cascading greenery draped at the angle I'd specified. I paced the banquet hall twice, once to audit the centerpieces and again to scrutinize the lighting, and both times the setup checked out.

After that I drove out to the estate, walked through every reserved guest suite, cross-referenced the seating layout against the table settings, and flagged two minor disasters with the event coordinator, both handled before I headed out. Violet's wedding was a day away, and I was determined to deliver every piece of magic I'd promised her.

But under all that frantic productivity, like a live wire, one thought ate at me.

Tonight I was going to stand in the same room as Xavier.

I'd bought my dress weeks ago, a deep sapphire silk that draped off one shoulder and flowed like liquid when I walked. My arms were bare, showing off my scattered mosaic of tattoos. They were tiny pieces of art I'd collected over the years without any master plan, a gallery of things I needed to carry on my skin. I'd styled my hair the day before, and the sleek blowout hadn't budged. I put on my lashes, double-checked my reflection, and lingered in front of the mirror a few seconds longer than I needed to.

I grabbed my keys and got in the car.

The banquet hall looked better than I'd dared hope, and my standards had been specific to begin with, which was saying something. The faux ivy crawled up the brick walls in the organic configuration I'd mapped out, and paired with the fresh blooms, it gave the cavernous room a breathing warmth that felt grown instead of staged. I caught the scent of flowers at the entryway. I paused at the threshold just to take it in, letting myself have a rare moment of pride, because I'd built this and it was stunning.

Violet was already holding court when I walked in. Simon and Olivia stood at her side, surrounded by a vibrant sea of everyone who mattered: lifelong friends and publishing colleagues she'd built real bonds with over the years. I'd barely made it three steps onto the hardwood before Violet's eyes locked onto mine.

She practically sprinted across the room and threw her arms around my neck.

"Thank you," she breathed into my shoulder, her voice thick. "Thank you, thank you, thank you. I mean it, Sloane. Everything's flawless. You brought this whole vision to life."

I squeezed her back hard before stepping away. "You definitely need to pay me."

She blinked, stunned.

"You should seriously consider it," I deadpanned. "I can draft a proper, itemized invoice."

She smacked my bare arm. "You did this out of love, you menace."

"I'm pretty sure my love wasn't in the floral budget."

She swatted at me again, a breathless laugh escaping, and I mirrored her grin.

Then Olivia was bolting toward me with both arms out, and I caught her. The teenager squeezed me with a fierce loyalty, and as I hugged her back, I marveled at this girl who was about to become Violet's niece but had already turned into mine.

"Uncle Simon finally said yes to the tattoo!" she announced, her whole face lighting up the room.

I arched a skeptical eyebrow. "Did he now."

"For my eighteenth birthday. He gave me a hard yes."

I gave her a knowing look. "Your eighteenth birthday is still a few years off, kid. By the time it rolls around, the urge might slip your mind."

She shook her head with stubborn teenage conviction. "It won't. I want a lot of things in life, and a tattoo's permanently on the list. I've been thinking about it forever."

Her gaze dropped to my bare arms, tracing the scattered black ink from my wrists up to my shoulders, reading the thin lines like a secret language. She went quiet for a long moment, which wasn't like her.

"Your arms inspire me," she said. "It's like looking at a museum of beautiful art."