“You realize it’s almost one in the morning and we have to be in a fucking wedding tomorrow, right?” he asks, speaking as if it’s someone else’s wedding. And I suppose it is. The man sitting here with his hands all over this woman is not the same man who’s going to be exchanging vows with Olivia tomorrow. That man, the man she thinks she’s marrying, is nothing more than a farce.
An act.
Clearly this is a man who’s used to getting everything he’s ever wanted and knows exactly how to go about getting it.
But what I don’t understand is if he could have any woman in the world, why her? Why the sweet-natured, humble soul who trusts he has her best interests at heart?
This man, this douche, reminds me of a client I had last year. The guy was a forty-something former trust-fund baby who was divorcing his first wife, a woman he’d been with since high school.
Twenty something years and at the end of it, he had the nerve to leave her for a much younger woman and refer to his ex as a fucking starter wife. Not only that, but he claimed he knew from the moment they said “I do” that it wasn’t going to be a forever thing.
“Let’s get back to my room before anyone sees,” he says, rising from his chair and sliding her off hers. His hands rest at her hips and he buries his face in her neck.
I bet he gets off on the thrill of getting caught, though obviously that’s yet to happen because I highly doubt Olivia would be marrying him tomorrow if she knew she was marrying this.
“I haven’t finished my wine yet,” she protests in one of those sticky-sweet baby voices that sound horrid on grown adults.
I slam back the rest of my drink.
I can’t stick around for another minute of this bullshit.
But before I leave, I snap a casual photo of the two assholes with my phone, ensuring it’s on silent so it goes unnoticed. I know from experience that people don’t always want to believe something until they see it with their own eyes. I also know from experience that hearsay is just that. And that a picture is often what wins or loses a case. Evidence. That’s all this is. I might not even need it or use it, but I’d rather have it than not.
Heading back to my room, I climb into bed a few minutes later and flip on the TV for some background noise because my thoughts are loud as hell.
He doesn’t deserve her.
And while I’m not normally in the habit of injecting myself into other people’s business unless they’re paying me by the hour … I’d make an exception for Olivia because five years ago, I’d have given anything for someone to have warned me before I made a fool of myself.
Calling off a wedding is humiliating in a special kind of way, but it pales in comparison to marrying the love of your life, smiling through thousands of wedding pictures, and starting a beautiful life together—only to find out everyone but you knew she was a lying, cheating whore.
I have to warn her.
I don’t have her number. I don’t know her first name—or his for that matter, but I’ll figure something out.
Chapter 3
Olivia
“Olivia? Olivia, did you hear what I just said?” my mother pulls me from a little morning reverie. “Your sister is bringing your dress up now. We’re getting ready in your suite if that’s okay.”
“Of course.” I insert myself back into the present moment, trying to forget the dream I had last night.
I was walking down the aisle, dressed in white, flowers galore, a string quartet playing Canon in D … and when I got to the end, it wasn’t Dorian standing there—it was Gabriel, the divorce attorney I met in the bar last night.
It’s the strangest thing, but in that dream I was happy. No, not happy. Ecstatic. Everything about that scene felt right and natural and flooded my body with warmth and fullness.
It felt so real, even after I woke up.
Still does.
But I need to snap out of it because I’m marrying Dorian and that dream meant absolutely nothing, as most dreams do.
A knock at the door is answered by my mother. My sister, Amelia, walks in carrying my dress in two hands. It’s bigger than she is. Originally I’d picked a more modest number, something with less chiffon and tulle and more ivory lace and a classic silhouette, but my future mother-in-law insisted it would look ridiculous.
“It’d be like wearing denim to the Met Gala,” she’d said as she lifted a teacup to her lips, pinky finger extended.
Another knock follows and my mother rushes to answer it.
“Elizabeth, Morgan,” she says to my other bridesmaids. “Don’t we all look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning!”
Elizabeth is all smiles for me, but it’s the strangest thing—she’s got bags under her eyes and looks like she’s two seconds from rolling back into bed. Her dark hair is piled into a messy bun on top of her head and she rubs her eyes before collapsing into a chair.
If I recall, she was one of the first ones to retire to her room after the rehearsal dinner last night. She said she was exhausted from the week’s festivities and wanted to call it a night early.
Best friends since second grade, I know her better than anyone else, which is why I know she’s been struggling ever since I got engaged. She was always the one obsessed with planning her future wedding and going the whole marriage and babies route, and I always had the take-it-or-leave-it mindset. Last year she told me there was some guy she was into at work, but he refused to commit. She admitted that despite knowing he was unavailable, she could never say no to him.
She’s never been lucky in love, but I know someday she’ll find the perfect guy and he’ll have been worth the wait.
The phone rings and my mother rushes to answer it. When she’s finished, she turns to me. “Room service is delivering a gift.”
I know it’s tradition for the bride and groom to get each other a gift the day of their wedding, but what do you get the man who has everything?
Silver monogrammed cufflinks with our wedding date inscribed on them, that’s what.
He’ll think of this day every time he wears them.
A text comes through on my phone, and I realize I haven’t heard from Dorian all morning. I’m sure he’s busy with his groomsmen and appeasing his mother’s demands since she singlehandedly orchestrated this entire event and every minute of it has to go as planned.
But the message is from the makeup artist, telling me she’s running five minutes behind. I tell her it’s no problem and set the phone down. A few minutes later, room service delivers a little blue box with a white ribbon along with a note on his cardstock letterhead.
My dearest Olivia,
From the moment you walked into my life, you showed me exactly the kind of man I wanted to be: the kind of man worthy of spending his forever with you.
From here to eternity. Can’t wait to grow old together.
Yours forever—
Dorian
I tug the white ribbon and lift the lid of the box. A shiny gold locket greets me, along with my new monogram engraved on the front.
It’s beautiful. A classic and timeless piece for the ages.
And it’d be perfect …