Page 103 of Weddings, Revenge & Fake Dating

“Don’t even start,” I hiss. “You’ve caused enough trouble.”

The music kicks in, and one at a time the bridesmaids walk down the aisle.

I hasten around a high green hedge. Hidden behind it, I find Sophia. She appears frazzled, sucking in deep breaths as she tries to compose herself. Beside her, a wedding coordinator fans her with a clipboard. On the other side, a makeup artist dabs sweat off her forehead with a cocktail napkin.

“Fifi, don’t do this. I was telling you the truth,” I say as she waits for her musical cue.

“It doesn’t matter. You’re either with me or you’re not.” She lifts her chin and looks away.

She’s so stubborn.

The wedding march begins.

Sophia readies herself, brushing her hands down her bodice and swiping her palms over her delicately pinned hair. She centers herself with a deep breath, rolls her shoulders back, and grips her bouquet of pink flowers. The wedding coordinator adjusts the train of her dress with a flap of silk and lays it flat. On the other side of the hedge, chairs creak as guests rise to their feet.

My heart catapults into my throat. I’m out of options. Swallowing all my pride hurts, but I do what I must. In a fit of bravery, I stand beside Sophia and wrap my arm around hers. Yes, I want to tug her to safety, but I fight it and instead face my fears.

“What are you doing?” She bats at me with her flowers.

“I’m with you, even if you’re making a mistake,” I say, unwilling to loosen my grip on her arm.

If I can’t think of a way to talk her out of this before she says I do, I will give her away to my ex-husband, if only to prove myself to her. I’m her true friend.

“Don’t make a scene.” Sophia unlocks herself from me and steps around the hedge and onto the aisle. Now she’s out in the open alone.

Every guest’s face turns in her direction. They ooh and ah. At their admiration, she turns on her brilliant smile and poses for the wedding photographer. She’s perfection.

Before she can take the first step, though, I slide beside her and twist my arm with hers again. Now that we’re side by side, the guests’ attention slides to me.

Understandably, their reaction is less enthused. I’m wearing jean shorts and a T-shirt that reads all hail the sausage queen.

“I’m seriously going to hurt you,” Sophia bites out through a tight smile.

Two photographers circle us, snapping photos.

“Keep smiling and walking,” I say, responding in the same manner.

“What are you going to do, trip me and break my ankle before I reach the altar?” Sophia asks.

“If that’s what it takes to save you.”

“Why do you even care?” Sophia speed-walks, losing time with the music.

“Because that’s what sisters do. They look out for each other.”

When we reach the end of the aisle, Roman flashes me a nasty look before presenting his hand to Sophia. With his guidance, she steps onto the dais, joining the wedding party. Maybe sensing the drama, the minister doesn’t ask who gives this woman.

With a backdrop of concerned whispers, I muscle Natasha out of the way and take my place as maid of honor. When Sophia turns to hand over her bouquet, she finds me instead.

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

I bob my head, undecided on the next course of action. Even though I’m doing this, I can’t believe I am. This is not how I pictured this moment. I’m jittery and on edge with the walls closing in. With every second that passes, I’m losing control.

Nathan paces behind the seated guests, tugging at his hair. Beside him, Mom juts her head toward Roman and makes a punching gesture.

I shrug, out of ideas. If telling Sophia that Roman is a two-timing bish and locking her in a coffin didn’t work, what will?

As I listen to the ceremony, I rack my brain for a solution. Then the wedding officiant says something that makes my head whip in his direction.