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“I am thinking of Wren?—”
“Are you?” he interrupts quietly. “Because the fact that you haven’t even tried to talk to her yet seems to indicate otherwise.”
“Goddammit, brat,” I grumble. “Not you, too.”
“Yeah, me, too,” he sasses back. “You owe it to her and to that baby to at least fucking try.”
I recoil in surprise. He’s the same carefree puppy dog of a man as always, but there’s something new behind his face, and I can’t help but wonder how long it’s been there. A melancholy, a sort of gloom just below the surface.
Did I miss that? When did it come? Why?
“The baby? Why do I owe the baby?”
“Because your refusal to be a decent human being is depriving your child of a happy, functional family.”
“That’s—”
“She’s good for you, Dmitri. She’s sweet and pure just like Elena was, but she’s not some naïve little wallflower, either. She can handle this life. She can handle you.”
I let out a weary sigh and plant both hands against the back of the chair in front of me for support. Standing suddenly feels like the hardest thing I’ve ever done. “You and Bee conspiring against me or something?”
He smirks. “I take it she’s been giving you the same spiel?”
“Endlessly.” I scowl. “You’re disqualified as my best man.”
“Too late for that by far.” He slaps me on the back. “I’m gonna go check on the girls. Think about what I said.”
I turn back to my reflection and try to erase the conversation from my mind.
But all that does is leave more room to think of her.
By the time I step up towards the altar, it hits me hard—this is really happening.
A thousand pairs of eyes are fixed on me right now. The ceremony hall is bursting with roses, lilacs, and baby’s breath, color blossoming in every single nook and cranny.
The sheer scale of this event stands in stark contrast to the day I married Elena. We’d driven down to Chicago City Hall in a vintage Cadillac with Bee and Aleksandr as our two witnesses. Elena wore a white cotton sundress, I wore a shirt with the sleeves cuffed to my elbows, and it was perfect.
Well, we thought it was perfect. If memory serves, Bee called it “a fashion travesty of the highest proportions.” Needless to say, we ignored her.
The ceremony itself lasted thirteen minutes, including the time spent waiting for the clerk to gauge if we were truly serious. When we’d finally convinced her, we exchanged rapid “I do’s” and then walked to the nearest corner and bought churros and ice cream.
I’ve never felt farther from that day than I do right now.
The orchestral music crescendos and then the bridal march starts up. I glance towards the harpists congregated in the far right of the hall, all dressed in white like overgrown cupids.
Then the doors open.
This is it.
My heartbeat rises. Why the fuck do I feel as though I want to jump right out of my skin? I’ve known for years that marrying Bee was the only real way to protect her. Hell, marrying her was my idea in the first place.
So why are my palms sweating? Why do my eyes keep roving over every window, every door as if I could throw myself out of here? Why do I keep glancing at those harpists in white again and again, like one of them will take my place and set me free?
Bee and Vittorio appear at the double doors and everyone rises to their feet. She looks beautiful—radiant in white, hair laced with a diamond-studded veil, the train of her dress swooping elegantly behind her.
But it’s all wrong. Her head is bent in a way that belongs to a much shyer, much more self-conscious woman. Bee is not that and it’s horrible to see her this way.
And then I see Wren and Aleksandr appear at the doors behind Vittorio and Bee. How easily my eyes stray from my bride. How natural it feels to admire Wren. She’s wearing a floating, lilac-colored dress that matches the flower petals strewn down the aisle. The fabric ruches and drapes strategically over her stomach, making it hard to notice that she’s eight months’ swollen with my child.
