Page 13 of The Wrong Groom

Still, I’ve done my best to make this place a home. I’ll be sorry to leave it.

I climb out of the car, pausing in the doorway so that they can’t just drive off. “Do you want me to come into the office tomorrow?” I ask, almost desperate for something to do.

My father shakes his head. “That won’t be necessary. We don’t need you.”

It feels like a slap. I know he thinks he’s being generous, giving me time off before the wedding, but his words sting in a way he’ll never understand. We don’t need you. A hell of a thing for a father to say to his daughter.

“We’ll need you to come in a few days,” he continues, oblivious to the way his words have landed. “Just to sign off on a few things. Until then, though, there’d be nothing for you to do.”

I nod, my gaze dropping to the concrete beneath my feet. “Okay. Thanks, Dad.”

I step back, releasing a breath I didn’t realize I was holding as the SUV rolls away from the sidewalk, disappearing around the corner. These days, being alone is a double-edged sword. It gives me time to think about my situation, to really feel the loneliness that I’m destined to feel forever—or, rather, for the next three years, as Gabriel reminded me earlier.

Not that that makes me feel much better.

But the alone time is also necessary. I need to get away from my parents. I need space to breathe, to be away from their constant plans and expectations.

The doorman greets me as I enter the building, his usual warm smile in place. “Good evening, Miss Beaumont. I trust everything went well with the photoshoot?”

I offer a polite nod. “As well as it could have.” To be fair, that’s true. I’d been envisioning much, much worse.

As I step into the elevator, I feel the gravity of the day slowly pressing down on me, like I’ve been carrying it around in silence. The walls of the elevator are a strange comfort—a brief, solitary space where no one can reach me, no expectations, no carefully laid plans. Just quiet.

When I reach my floor, I walk down the familiar hallway toward my condo, the sound of my heels echoing off the walls. I pause for a moment at my front door, glancing down the empty hallway.

It’s a strange, liminal place. My neighbors’ doors are spaced out, distant from one another. I’ve lived here for three years, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen another person on this floor. Haven’t heard them, either, through the soundproof walls.

In college, I lived in a dorm building, and it was my first glimpse of life the way it’s supposed to be lived—surrounded by other people, in community. My world—the world of high-end fashion and wealth—is lonely, isolating.

I feel like an asset to my family more than I feel like a human being. This condo isn’t my home, despite my best efforts. It’s just a box where my parents have kept me until they needed me for a business transaction.

The thought is fleeting, but sharp enough to cut. I let out a breath between clenched teeth, the air hissing. Enough. I need to stop thinking this way, stop indulging these little moments of self-pity. I have a job to do.

I let myself into my condo. It’s spacious, with high ceilings and large windows that overlook the city. Sunlight streams in, bathing the room in a warm glow, but the light does little to lift the heaviness in my chest.

The living area is decorated with the trendy, minimalist furniture my parents chose for me—a mix of sleek lines and muted colors that feels more like a showroom than a home.

I had added a few personal touches here and there. A framed picture of my friends from college, a couple of throw pillows that add a pop of color, and a potted plant that I almost forgot to water this week. Unfortunately, these things, along with most of my clothes and some of the furniture that I decided to keep, are already packed away, awaiting shipment to Gabriel’s house.

My whole life, it turns out, can be neatly fit into a few oversized boxes and transplanted, just like that.

I collapse onto the stiff couch, feeling lost in this space that never truly belonged to me. The cushions barely give under my weight.

I need to do something—something that will settle my nerves, help me refocus. I feel jittery, anxious.

I stare at the television, feeling forlorn. I could watch something, but I’ve never been a fan of watching movies alone. It’s no fun.

A dog-eared copy of a new bestselling romance, A Symphony of Love, sits on my coffee table. Under normal circumstances, this would be the answer. I could run a bath, pour myself a glass of wine, and kick back with a book.

Now, though, that’s the last thing I want. It won’t make me feel better to delve into my usual escapist fantasies. Reading about the protagonist’s meet-cute with her new orchestra director isn’t likely to make me feel any better. It might have a year ago, but the future is too set in stone for me to daydream without feeling guilty and bitter.

My eyes cast around the room, eventually landing on the writing desk in the corner. That’s it. I’ll sketch.

When everything feels like shit and there’s no way out? Sketch. When work is terrible and boring? Sketch. When my mother says something horrible without even meaning to? Sketch.

I pull out a few blank sheets of paper and my drawing pencils, setting up my workspace, then head into the kitchen to boil some water for tea. While the kettle is heating up, I grab a couple of biscuits from the jar on the counter. The kettle whistles, cutting through the quiet, and I brew some loose-leaf oolong before returning to my desk.

I take a sip, letting the warmth spread through me, and finally settle down in front of the paper.