Page 9 of The Wrong Groom

Chapter 3

Gabriel

This isn’t the first time I’ve made this argument to my mother, but it’s the first time I’ve done it in front of the Beaumonts. With any luck, they’ll come to their senses and this whole cursed marriage will be over before it begins.

“This isn’t just unnecessary, it’s absurd, “ I say, doing my best to keep the desperation out of my voice. “A wedding between us will be laughable. It’ll be damaging for our reputations.”

My mother’s mouth presses into a thin line, and I can tell that she, at least, is mulling things over. The Beaumonts, on the other hand, are a different story.

“You can’t be getting cold feet now,” Mr. Beaumont protests, his voice rising in irritation. He crosses his arms, glaring at me as if I’m the one being unreasonable. “We’ve come too far for you to back out.”

I glance over at Mrs. Beaumont, hoping for a glimmer of understanding in her face, but she looks just as stern, her lips pursed in silent agreement with her husband. They aren’t budging. This isn’t just a formality for them. It’s a business deal, a merger between families that they’ve likely been planning for years.

“I’m not getting cold feet,” I argue, trying to keep my voice even. “I’m being realistic. Think about the headlines, the backlash. None of it will be good. We’ll both be dragged through the mud. Do you really want that for your family? For her?”

I don’t dare look at her—my supposed bride-to-be. I can feel her presence behind me, quiet and tense, but I don’t turn around. I can’t. Not now. This is my only chance to get out, and I can’t let the almost painful awkwardness of this situation stop me from trying.

Instead, I turn my gaze back to my mother. “Please. Mother. Think about⁠—”

“Gabriel,” she sighs, interrupting me. “It’s you who needs to think here. If you don’t enter into the marriage your father arranged for you, you will be forfeiting your shares in Thorne Enterprises. You know that.”

Her tone is firm, unyielding, and my heart sinks.

“You do have a choice, you know. This isn’t being forced upon you. If you want, you can walk away from this.” She pauses. “But to do so would mean walking away from your inheritance, as well.”

“Mother—”

“There’s no way around this,” she says ruefully. “I’m sorry. I am the executor of your father’s will. I made a promise to him, and I intend to keep it.”

I should’ve figured it would go this way. My mother, when she wants to be, can be stubborn as hell. I just didn’t expect that the Beaumonts would dig their heels in quite so much.

My mother knows as well as I do that while this is technically a choice, it’s not a reasonable one. I would never walk away from Thorne Enterprises.

I’ve worked too hard, for too long, to lose this. The thought of forfeiting my shares in the company feels like a punch to the gut. Years of effort, sleepless nights, the constant grind—all for nothing? It’s not just a business. It’s my legacy, my father’s legacy.

I’m not an unrealistic person. I know that my attempts to pump the brakes on this wedding are all doomed to failure. This one was particularly desperate. We’re at the engagement shoot, for Christ’s sake. They’re not going to be talked out of this. We’re in too deep.

I had to try, though. Something came over me while I was holding Alexis in my arms for the camera—a fierce, sudden urge to pull away. To stop this, before it spirals out of control.

As I turn away from my mother and the Beaumonts, I take a deep breath, trying to marshal my frustration and banish the tension from my body. If it has to be this way, then I’ll see it through. Still, I can’t quite rinse the bitter tang of betrayal from my mouth as I trudge back toward Alexis, every step feeling like a mile.

How could you do this to me? I ask silently. The question is directed at my father, not at anyone present. How could you do this to her?

Alexis stands where I left her, looking lost and vulnerable in a way that punches straight through my carefully constructed walls. She’s not crying. She’s not asking for help. But there’s something in her posture, stiff, uncertain, like she’s holding herself together with nothing but sheer will, that makes my chest tighten. She looks like someone bracing for impact, for whatever comes next. And I hate that I might be the source of that dread.

A protective urge rises inside me, sudden and fierce. I want to shield her from the pressure and the ridiculous expectations that have been heaped on both of us. But the truth is, I can’t. Not really. The situation we’re in, the forced marriage, the legacy, this photoshoot—it’s inescapable.

“Could you give us a moment?” I say to the photographer. “We’ll be right back.”

Without waiting for an answer, I turn to Alexis. “Would you like to take a walk with me?”

She blinks, seeming startled, like the offer hadn’t even occurred to her as a possibility. For a tense moment, I’m convinced she’s going to say no. That she won’t want to be alone with me, especially not after the awkwardness that’s settled between us like fog.

After a small beat, though, she nods. “Sure.”

We step away from the shoot, our footsteps quiet against the sun-warmed sand. The salty breeze brushes past us, lifting strands of her hair and carrying the rhythmic hush of waves crashing along the shoreline. The sound is oddly soothing. Grounding. I don’t look back, and I’m relieved that no one calls out to stop us. We finally have a moment away from the endless scrutiny, the expectations, the suffocating performance of being something we’re not yet ready to be.

“Where are we going?” Alexis asks, glancing up at me.