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“William Fucking Grover,” I grit out, rounding the corner as I hit the second flight. “Self-righteous, mouthy, argumentative, prick,” I grumble, expelling all the pent-up words I’ve had to keep in for the last seven hours of my life.
This trial has been a nightmare which is one hundred percent due to the opposing counsel, William Grover, and nothing to do with the actual case. I’ve known the self-entitled asshole since grad school, and unfortunately, he hasn’t lost even an ounce of his condescending personality over the years. Not only that, but the man also loves to hear himself speak. Today, for example, he drawled on and on, basically turning what should have been a short closing statement into the reading ofWar and Peace.
Of course, of all the days I’d have to be stuck in a courtroom well past quitting time, it had to be today. The day I’m supposed to leave for Shiloh’s wedding festivities. Somehow, despite the fact that she’s a new mom to twins, she’s bounced back enough to plan an entire wedding weekend with no one to help her besides Logan’s mom and me—from a distance. Countless FaceTime calls, carrier packages, virtual dress fittings, and recorded food tastings later, andwa-la,it’s wedding time.
The couple has decided to marry on The Huxley family’s land. After seeing it in person over the Christmas holiday, I can say I fully stand behind the decision. It will be stunning, I have no doubt, but it will also be very…sweet.I cringe at the thought, my mouth filling with bitterness. Event after event, and tons of family members crammed together over the course of three days, is a lot for anyone to handle. But for someone like me who generally dislikes people and crowds? It’s too much. If it weren't for Shiloh being my best friend, I’d make up some lame but well-orchestrated excuse for not attending at all.
Finally, I hit the eighth floor, panting and out of breath as I barrel into the reception area. It’s after five, and the office is closed, so I’m surprised when I find Carly, our secretary, cursing at her computer. I skid to a halt, barely catching myself when my shiny shoes continue to slide across the slick floor, clearly missing the memo to stop. I crash into the tall desk, gripping the ledge for balance as I catch my breath.
Carly slowly and reluctantly drags her angry gaze from her computer screen to look up at me. Her eyes do a double take, probably noticing my sweaty forehead.
“What’s wrong?” We both ask, words tumbling over one another. I grin, shaking my head and gesturing for her to go first. She sighs and turns her glare back to the offending device.
“Damn thing crashed again,” she mumbles, dropping her head into her hands with an exasperated breath. “I have to get out the timecards today. Otherwise, no one will get paid on Monday, and the whole system is down.”
“Again?” I ask, my brows furrowed. Standing up tall, I shake off the last of the adrenaline from the fast, vertical run and exhale heavily. My feet are throbbing, and my silk shirt is clinging to my sticky body, but I feel more awake than I’ve felt all day. Still— “That’s like the sixth time in the last few weeks. I don’t understand why the computers keep crashing.”
“I don’t either,” she groans, fingers digging beneath her wire-thin glasses to scrub her eyes. “The tech guy is here fixing it, but he’s already been here for over an hour, and it’s still down.” She drops her hands, leaving mascara smeared down her full cheeks. I fight a grimace at the sight, biting my tongue, so I don’t make her feel worse right now. “Sandra is going to beso mad.”
I scoff and roll my eyes as I straighten the folded sleeves of my button-down. “Royale can go fuck herself.”
She barks out a laugh, then slaps her hand over her mouth, stifling the sound with a gasp. Her cheeks turn a rosy shade of pink, and her eyes dart around the open waiting area as though Sandra Royale is going to pop out of the shadows and fire her. I cut a hand through the air, dismissing her silent panic.
“If she has anything to say to you Carly, come to me. She’s just another partner here, not the person in charge, and certainly not your boss. Besides,” I add, stepping away from the desk and heading for my office. Walking backward, I smile, hoping to calm her anxieties, though I likely look like a psychopath. “It’s not your fault the computers suck. Go home and get some rest. We’ll handle it on Monday.”
She jumps up, nearly knocking her chair down. “Are you sure?” she cries, already bundling her belongings into her arms. “Ridge made plans for dinner, and I’m already la—”
“Go,” I nod, pointing toward the elevator. I chuckle at her antics, watching her scramble out from behind the desk in excitement. “At least someone’s going to enjoy their night,” I murmur.
Sighing, I step into my office and dart to my desk to pack up for the weekend. I debate bringing my laptop and case files with me for a solid two minutes, picking them up and placing them into my travel bag before depositing them back onto my desk once more.
Back and forth, back and forth.
My reluctance to show up without a task to keep my brain busy has nothing to do with work and everything to do with the fact that Ihatehanging out with people. I’m that girl who brings her books to bars and reads in the corner. The one who sneaks onto her phone at events, feigning work-related emails but plays Candy Crush instead of socializing. Not only do I prefer the quiet, but I’m also shit at small talk.
However, this weekend is important to Shiloh, and Shiloh is important to me. I agreed to be her Maid of Honor, and there’s no way that I could get away with hiding in a corner. With that thought in mind, I reluctantly empty my briefcase. I set my laptop back on my desk and tuck the case files into my locked desk drawer until Monday. I drop my purse down and dig out my lipstick for a touch-up, even as my brain scrambles for an excuse not to go this weekend.
I could say I have the flu or maybe chicken pox. Oh, chicken pox would be good. No one wants a bumpy, scratchy Maid of Honor. No. Shiloh will never believe that. Maybe I could say my dad is sic—
I cut that thought off before I can finish it. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m literally wishing illness upon me and my already sick father, just so I don’t have to go to this wedding and pretend I’m happy when really…
When really…I’m dying inside. Dying to just feel something—anything.
My phone picks that exact moment to buzz, pulling me from my downward spiral. “Shit,” I whisper. I don’t even need to look at the message to know it’s from Shiloh, but being the masochist I am, I pull it from my purse and check my notifications. As expected, it’s my bestie asking for my ETA, which at this point is next Tuesday. Groaning, I quickly respond with a simplesoon,and toss the device onto my desk. We both know I’m a dirty little liar.
Before she can respond, or likely call and shout at me, I run to the bathroom down the hall to freshen up before my two-hour drive to Blue River. Once inside, I take care of my needs and wash my hands. Looking up, I glance at my reflection in the mirror and grimace at what I see.
It’s not the outfit or the way I look that has me sighing heavily. It’s not my hair, makeup, or clothing. In fact, the burgundy jumpsuit is one of my favorite articles of clothing I own. It has cap sleeves, showing off my long, toned arms. It reaches high up on my neck, elongating it in a way that makes me look and feel elegant. The material clings to my thin body, showing off my slight curves and small waist, before flaring out into a wide leg that skims just above my black heels, making my 5’4 frame look much taller. The gold jewelry I always wear pops against my brown skin and accents the outfit perfectly.
It's also not the long, black hair I’ve recently had straightened, knowing I’d want to wear it in a sleek chignon for the wedding. It’s naturally densely curled, but today, it’s shiny and straight as it glides down my back, grazing just above the swell of my ass. My makeup is on point, if not a little dewy from my recent exertion.
I lookgood.I know I do. Physically, I’m a fucking catch. Mentally? I’m a goddamned disaster.
As I take in my reflection, I find that I don't recognize myself in the stranger staring back at me. I see a woman who spends all day, every day, pretending. Pretending to be something she’s not. Pretending to be happy and outgoing. Someone who spends her life standing up for those who can’t do it themselves. Holds their hands when their demons get too big, and advocates for the voiceless.
I see a woman who is supporting an elderly, ill father, who sacrificed his own happiness to make sure I never went without. I could give him everything, and it still wouldn’t be enough to repay him for what he’s done. I’m happy to do it, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s fucking exhausting.
Pretending is exhausting.
