Page 19 of The Spare

Dad turns to me. ‘Ready, darling?’

I nod. Ready as I’ll ever be.

With that, I take my first steps towards my fate.

CHAPTER 9

Selena

The hijinks become an actual uproar as I step through the doors of the cathedral, threatening to drown out the organist’s valiant—and beautiful—efforts with Mendelssohn’s ‘Wedding March’. Three hundred heads swivel in my direction; three hundred mouths agape.

Oh, fuck.

I’ve courted prominence, yes. Credibility. Profile. I’ll admit, I like to be admired. I enjoy being a role model within the British fashion and lifestyle industry, and I can also admit that I’ve quite enjoyed the sour grapes that my longstanding engagement to Xavier has inspired in so many women my age.

But never, ever have I courted infamy, and this, right here, feels a lot like that. I’m suddenly impatient to get the hell up this aisle and stand next to Benedict.

As I absorb the sensation of so many eyes on me, and for all the wrong reasons, I feel my armour slip into place, thank God.

I am Selena Wentworth.

I am wearing hundreds upon hundreds of thousands of pounds in diamonds and lace.

This is my wedding day, no matter who awaits me at the end of the aisle, no matter how royally fucked up the past week has been.

I have been waiting for this moment my entire life, and I’m damned if I’m going to let anything wreck this moment.

I lift my chin. We proceed up the aisle, which, I have to say, looks stunning. The planner and I leaned into the idea of my marrying on one of the shortest days of the year. Full-height candelabra stand at the pew ends, bedecked with white flowers and trailing ivy, their candles flickering softly.

(Ivy. How fucking ironic. I didn’t see that plot twist coming, I have to say.)

I force myself to focus on the aesthetics. Our little groom bombshell aside, everything is perfect. The music swells around the cathedral, soaring to its vaulted ceilings. The dim light gives a romantic, intimate vibe. The air is scented with florals. All of it gives me the courage to look at our guests, to make eye contact.

I focus on my side of the aisle, on the friends and family lining the pews. And as I do, I realise everyone is rooting for me. They may not have the first clue what’s going on, but I can see, from the encouraging smiles on their faces, that they have my back—or, at the very least, they’ve worked out that I’m going to need some serious moral support to make it up this aisle and through this ceremony. Everyone, quite frankly, looks tickled pink. The wife of Wentworth’s CFO gives me a beaming grin and a double thumbs-up. I smile shakily back at her, and my shoulders drop a millimetre.

Posture, Selena.

It’s only after a few more steps of this that I summon up the courage to do the scariest thing at all:

Check out my groom.

I drag my gaze along the near and dear faces lining the aisle and over to the front of the church, where Benedict stands in his morning suit. He’s standing completely still, his posture excellent, his shoulders broad, hands clasped in front of him.

Oh my God oh my God oh my God.

He’s waiting for me.

It hits me all at once: how crazy what we’re doing is, how reckless. This is Ben. I’ve known him since I was a tiny girl, but I’ve never ever considered him for the position of my husband—even if I’ve considered him in a lot of other positions. It’s insane to be marrying him… but as I draw nearer, another thought rises, potent enough to submerge the anxious chatter in my head.

He looks so hot. He is so fucking hot that I can’t bear it. He looks insanely handsome, but it’s the seriousness on his gorgeous face that gives me pause. It looks as though, for once in his life, he actually understands the gravitas of what he’s doing, and while that sense of gravitas really does make him even hotter than usual, it also puts the fear of God into me. What if he suddenly realises how insanely stupid a move this is? What if he runs for the hills?

But he’s here, isn’t he? He’s here and, like I said, he’s waiting for me, and he hasn’t taken those green eyes off me. If we can just get through this ceremony and emerge from it intact, if the congregation and the press can get their fix of us as man and wife, then I can handle everything else. Whatever kind of shitshow it is behind closed doors with me and Ben, I can handle it. Just as long as no one has cause to ridicule us in public.

I’m a few metres away from him when I brave a small smile. He blinks and smiles back as if I’ve snapped my fingers in his face. He was probably ruminating on the fact that his life as he knows it is ending today, but as he takes me in up close, his smile turns mischievous. I say mischievous when really, I mean dirty: the kind of look you shouldn’t give your bride in a house of God. His eyes sweep over me before Dad blocks our view of each other, stepping in front of me to lift my veil.

As Dad fusses with the veil, another wave of self-consciousness wafts over me. I couldn’t get much food down today, and now I’m worried my breath stinks of ketones, even if I was crunching Smints the whole way here. I wish I could have popped a Smint into the corner of my gum and quietly sucked on it for the duration of the ceremony. I know Benedict will probably kiss me when we’ve said our vows, and I don’t want his first impression to be fuck, my new wife has bad breath.

Dad turns to shake Benedict’s hand before stepping back. I turn and take in my bridesmaids. I can feel the panic streaming out of my eyes like laser beams. Flora, as my almost-sister-in-law, is standing nearest to me. She gives me a bright grin and a firm nod. You can do this. I nod back and turn to face Benedict.