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Well, screw him. He needs something. I need something. This is a business deal, just like the ruthless ones he spent his entire life making. After two years doing the dirty work for Tristan Conway and Victor St. Clair, I’ve finally learned something.
It doesn’t matter if it’s ugly. What matters is that it gets done.
“This is my friend and witness, Nadine Willows.”
St. Clair nods to Nadine and buttons his suit jacket. “This is Steven. He’ll be our second witness.”
The man to his right gives me a curt wave before putting both of his hands behind his back again. They’re standing over five feet apart.
So, not a friend, then.
A smiling, middle-aged man walks in, glasses perched on his nose. “The happy couple!” he says. “I’m honored to be here today.”
I look from him to St. Clair’s stoic face and laughter bubbles up in my throat. It’s nervous and panicked and probably more than a little hysterical.
“You must officiate a lot of these?” Nadine asks. “Several a day?”
Our officiant laughs. “Yes. But I’m always honored. Ready to get started?”
I turn to St. Clair. His name is Victor, though I’ve never called him that. The man I’ve hated and cursed mentally for the past year. He’s dictated my weeks and my weekends, my holidays and my vacation. Or lack thereof.
He gazes back at me, blue eyes reflecting the lighting overhead. Beautiful features on an otherwise relentlessly masculine face. Sharp jaw and straight nose.
There’s steadiness in his eyes.
Not encouragement. Not kindness.
But steadiness, the kind I’ve learned to read over the past year. The one that means he’s reliable in all of his self-serving, business-oriented glory. Once given, he doesn’t break his word. I’ve seen him follow his agreements to the letter.
“Cecilia?” he asks.
The sound of my first name rings out between us, stretching taut in the silence of the dusty City Hall room.
I take a step forward. “Yes,” I say. “We’re ready.”
* * *
There are some moments you’ll remember forever. Signing my name next to Victor St. Clair’s on the marriage license is one of them.
It might not be a traditional wedding. There are no speeches or supportive parents, no ushers, no flower girls, no wedding party. But there is the same one sentence I’ve heard over and over again.
And it falls over us like a scythe.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
The words ring in my head in the awkward silence that follows. Spin on repeat as St. Clair thanks the officiant, as Nadine makes small-talk with Steven.
Victor gives me a professional nod and reaches up to readjust the collar of his fitted shirt. “Well done.”
“Um, thanks. You too.”
He motions for the door and I follow him, walking out of the room where my fate has just been sealed. My head feels dizzy. Topsy-turvy. The deep-green carpet beneath my feet has probably been walked by thousands of couples before us. Had the brides been happy? Laughing and crying?
I wonder if any of the couples had known one another as little as Victor and I do.
If any of them had liked each other less.
“How are you feeling?” Nadine whispers.
