Page 12 of The Wrong Groom

Both of you. That’s for my parents, not me and Gabriel.

“Of course,” my father says amicably. “That should garner the widest reach.”

My stomach turns at his words, but I keep quiet, keep the smile plastered across my face. My cheeks hurt from the effort of holding it there.

“In the meantime, I can take care of finding a designer and a florist,” Camille continues.

I brace myself. Uh oh. Flowers. My mother isn’t going to take kindly to that.

Right on cue, she clears her throat. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take care of the floral arrangements myself.”

“You’re already doing so much,” Camille says graciously. “Truly, I don’t mind⁠—”

“It’s no trouble,” my mother responds, her voice like silk. “I already know a perfect florist who specializes in elegant arrangements. I have a… bit of a vision for this, I’m afraid.”

The tension in the air shifts, a silent battle of wills playing out before my eyes. Camille’s smile falters slightly, but she quickly masks her disappointment. “Of course, if you’re set on it.”

I catch Gabriel’s eye, and there’s a small, amused smile on his face. I can’t help but smile back, despite the tension hanging in the air. It’s a subtle, shared moment between us, an acknowledgment that we’re both in on the absurdity of it all.

Gabriel turns to the photographer, who’s fiddling with the settings on his camera. “Hey, are we done here?”

The photographer looks up, chewing his lip. “Well, I could work with what I have, but⁠—”

“Excellent,” says Gabriel. “If that’s the case, I need to get back to the office.”

I open my mouth to say something to him, although I’m not even sure what. Goodbye? See you later? See you at the rehearsal dinner? I can’t think of anything that wouldn’t sound stilted.

It doesn’t matter, anyway. Gabriel doesn’t give me the chance. He’s already stalking off toward the parking lot before I can find the words, leaving a trail of footprints in the sand.

Disappointment courses through me, and I chase it away with a firm reminder. This isn’t personal to him. It shouldn’t be personal to you.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. My mother’s. Her touch is firm, practical, not comforting. I don’t expect sympathy from her, and she doesn’t offer any. “The car is waiting. Are you ready to go?”

I nod, feeling numb, and allow her to lead me away from the romantic trappings of the beach and toward the parking lot. By the time we reach the asphalt, Gabriel is already gone. If I had to guess, he wanted to be alone, or at least with his brothers.

I’m not so lucky. A single SUV came to pick us up, so I have to spend the car ride with my parents, who are definitely not going to be courteous about my emotional state. I steel myself. Twenty more minutes of putting on a smile, then I’ll be alone at home.

The driver opens the back door for us, and my father slides into the car first. I follow suit, crowding into the farthest back seats to make space for my parents.

As we drive off, I keep my eyes glued to the window, watching the California coastline rush past. My parents are still talking—to each other, not to me. They do this all the time, have lengthy conversations about me, around me, without inviting me to join. In fact, they make it pretty clear that I’m not supposed to say anything. That I’m basically a houseplant to them.

This time, they’re discussing arrangements for my wedding, which makes it all the more unbearable. I tip my head to one side, leaning against the car’s window so that the vibrations of the road reverberate through my skull. I know I’m messing up the perfect, sleek waves that the stylist put in my hair, but I can’t bring myself to care.

It’s not like I have anything—or anyone—to look good for this evening.

April wedding. Should we invite the Dallingers? Of course, of course, and we should ensure that Yara wears the latest Vérité. Goes without saying.

I try to let their words wash over me. If they’re going to ignore me, then I reserve the right to ignore them.

That’s easier said than done though. I can’t help taking in and digesting every sentence. They’ve moved on from the basic logistics of the wedding, and are now putting their heads together, working on the invite list.

This, to them—certainly to my father—is the most important aspect of the event itself. It has to be star-studded, filled with industry players, influential people from the fashion world, and those with enough social clout to elevate Vérité. My wedding, at its core, is less about me and more about the brand. The Beaumont name.

Vérité is our family’s crown jewel, a fashion empire built on prestige and image. If they want to gain any social capital from my wedding, they need the right people there, wearing the right clothes.

I shift in the back seat, swallowing my irritation. I’ve been swallowing it for my entire life, but never more so than over the past few weeks.

At long last, the car pulls up to the building that houses my condo. My parents bought the place for me after I finished college, which was only three years ago. It was clear that they never intended it to be a permanent situation. I was going to move in with my husband as soon as I was married.