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Hard, sturdy, and so broad, it actually fits my waist.
And then he’s marching with sure, purposeful strides in the direction of the mansion.
“What are you doing?” I ask, mortified, as the blood rushes to my head.
“I told you, sweetheart. You’re spending time with me tonight.”
ASPEN
AGE THIRTY-FIVE
I’ve never liked weddings.
But this one is different.
This one is my daughter’s.
I’m sitting with a stiff posture in a seat in the back corner so that I don’t make her uncomfortable on her big day.
It’s a poolside wedding at the house I wish to never enter—her father’s.
I honestly thought the slimy man would close the gate in my face, but thankfully, he respected her wishes for once and let me attend. Though I haven’t seen him since I arrived, so the chance of him putting on the devil’s horns and actually throwing me out is close to one hundred percent.
The land surrounding the pool is bigger than any other potential wedding venue. Not to mention the two-story mansion sitting majestically in the middle of it. Although the property is old, it’s worth every inch in gold, considering its close proximity to Manhattan.
Due to the numerous legal battles regarding its ownership, its value has been calculated to be over sixty million. A price tag that’s made it a meaty subject for the press and real estate moguls.
It has a history of blood and deceit, and its current owner conveniently holds the title of “Savage Devil.”
The air is chilly, but the sun shines between the tree leaves that frame the garden as if the weather itself is celebrating this day. Countless guests occupy the rows of chairs decorated with vanilla orchids—the flowers that produce my daughter’s favorite flavor.
Only a few of the people present are her friends; the rest are here to kiss her father’s or her husband’s ass, either for their wealth, their names, or their positions in the legal circuit.
Nathaniel Weaver—or Nate—stands at the end of the aisle in a dashing black tuxedo with his hands crossed in front of him.
He’s the co-owner of Weaver & Shaw’s law firm and technically my boss, since I’m a senior partner, my only friend, and the man I trust to make my daughter happy.
He actually legally married her a few months ago for convenience reasons when her father was in a coma. At the time, I didn’t know she was my daughter and even suggested he use her for the firm’s sake, but he vehemently refused.
Nate is like that. Responsible to a fault. Completely and utterly methodical with no sneaky, backhanded personality.
What started as a marriage of convenience obviously turned into more, and they’re now finally having their official wedding ceremony.
The press had a field day when the news first broke. They were utterly nasty about how a thirty-eight-year-old man is marrying his partner and best friend’s daughter who’s only twenty years old.
They began their disgusting speculations about his predatory tendencies. But I know for a fact that Nate didn’t see her as a woman or touch her until they were married. I also know that they love each other in a way I only thought was possible in fiction.
The press has always been hungry for anything “Nathaniel,” partly because of his position at Weaver & Shaw but mainly because he’s the only son of a senator.
Said senator and his wife are in the front row, pretending to show their support for their son, when they’re practically estranged.
My heart aches as I stare at them acting like doting parents and smiling. I wish I could sit there, even for a moment, and be recognized as my baby girl’s mother, but if I attempt that, I’ll probably be chased out by the dogs.
But it’s okay. Watching from afar is better than not watching at all.
The orchestra switches to an instrumental of “House of Gold” by Twenty One Pilots—my daughter’s favorite band. All eyes turn back to where she walks down the aisle, her arm interlinked with her father’s.
Gwyneth Shaw.
