Page 126 of Wicked Brutal

Dad gives a quiet laugh. “Neither am I.”

Relief slips through before I can hide it. “Good.” Victor’s eyebrows lift. Shit. “I mean, I’d like that. Having Mom help me.”

“As you should.”

I hesitate. “Could I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Would you consider hiring a wedding planner for us?”

Victor looks mildly surprised. “You want a planner?”

“I think it would be easier. Mom and I have never planned anything like the kind of wedding you’ll be expected to have, and I don’t want to make mistakes or bother you every time we don’t know what we’re supposed to choose.”

His expression changes immediately. I found the right words.

“The kind of wedding we’re expected to have,” he corrects.

“Right. Sorry. We.”

“And you wouldn’t be bothering me.”

“I know, but you’re busy. Flowers and dresses and invitations are women’s work. It seems silly to drag you into all of it when you could hire someone who already knows what you expect.”

Victor smiles. “What I expect?”

I choose my next words carefully. “It’s your money.”

His smile deepens. “Our money, eventually.”

“Eventually,” I agree. “But right now it’s yours, and you know the kind of people who’ll be there. I’d rather you choose someone you trust. Then Mom and I can work with them and you don’t have to worry that we’re doing something wrong.”

Dad looks pleased. Victor looks fucking delighted. “That’s a very sensible answer.”

“So you’ll think about it?”

“I don’t need to think about it.” He reaches for his water. “I’ll have someone send you a few names tomorrow.”

I blink. “Really?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

“You can choose from the people I send you. Your mother can help.” There it is. Even when he gives me something, he builds the walls around it first. His planners. His money. His approved choices. And somehow I’m grateful for the slightly larger cage.

“I’d like that.”

“Good.” Victor brings my hand to his mouth.

Across the table, Dad looks at me. I feel it immediately and lower my eyes to my plate. Victor doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and simply doesn’t care.

He looks across at Dad instead. “You undersold her.”

Dad’s mouth tips faintly. “Did I?”

“She’s intelligent, she’s charming, she knows how to carry a conversation, and she clearly has the right instincts with children.” My stomach turns at the last part.