Page 16 of Angel

He’d scarcely spoken since Reese’s decree, except to grunt his vows during the ceremony, which unfolded as a blur on the lakefront.

Hell, his heart still belonged to the Jezebel who dumped him hours earlier.

To my sibling, my lifelong bully, and the ultimate queen of betrayal.

‘How are you, honey?’

Marnie, Angel’s sister, sat to my left, acting as my unofficial maid of honor.

She was doing an incredible job of keeping me sane, checking on me every so often.

‘I’m good,’ I told her, managing a weak smile.

She squeezed my arm, topped up my water glass, and settled back into her seat.

Her eyes flicked between Angel and me, tracking the tension before scanning the long table.

To Angel’s right, the rest of the Six Sinners band, his groomsmen, kept up appearances, chatting in hushed tones while picking at their food.

My bridesmaids, most of them Evangeline’s friends, cast nervous, hesitant glances at Angel and me.

I forced a tight smile onto my face, ignoring the swelling panic and ache in my chest.

We’d maintained a strict lid on the narrative per Reese’s orders, a decision I hated because silence only fueled the rumor mill.

Now, gossip, conjecture, and relentless morbid curiosity swept through the room like wildfire.

Outside, the sun beat down on the billowing canvas of the wedding tent.

Inside, high-powered industrial air units blasted sub-zero air, keeping the atmosphere chilled.

As for me, I was icy and brittle on the inside, shivering to my bones.

Trying to take my mind off my misery, I focused on the decor instead.

Evangeline’s design made the space resemble an ethereal indoor forest.

Wisteria vines wept from the iron rafters, their lavender blossoms brushing against suspended crystal globes that held flickering tea lights.

Three hundred chairs wrapped in ivory silk surrounded tables laden with silver, hand-painted porcelain, and massive arrangements of white hydrangeas.

Uniformed servers moved down the aisles, balancing trays of truffle-infused arancini, braised wagyu beef tartare on crostini, and chilled lobster tail skewers.

The wealthiest dynasties in Tennessee filled the seats.

The Caldwells, who controlled the local banking sector, whispered to the Eastford heirs, scions of a brewing empire.

They mingled with a few Saudi princes, a slew of dot-com-wealthy investors, and a Lord and Lady or two from our English side of the family.

Plus a few local business-people, acquaintances of Reese, who fawned over the Six Sinners and presented their cards to them with aplomb, as if expecting the band to recognize their names.

The reception was a masterclass in high-society fakery, and I played my part to perfection, hiding my internal panic.

I had no idea how my night, heck, my life, was going to play out.

The MC tapped the microphone, the sound slicing through the chatter.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, please clear the floor for the bride and groom’s first waltz.’