… if I weren’t allergic to gold.
A fact I’ve pointed out a myriad of times over the years until he finally stopped giving me jewelry altogether. I try not to take it personally that he forgot—or take it as a sign.
“Let me see!” my mother rushes to my side, gasping as if I’m showing her the Hope Diamond. She’s always been one for theatrics. “Simply gorgeous. But you can't wear that. You’re allergic.”
“Hair and makeup is here,” one of my bridesmaids announces from the other side of the suite. A team of men and women enter with their train cases and counter-height chairs and duffel bags and begin scanning the room for the best makeshift studio.
Here we go …
The rest of the morning is a blur, one consisting of highlighting and contouring and hairspray and perfume, diamond earrings and room service fruit plates and cucumber sandwiches.
Before I realize it, it’s almost a quarter to two and we’re due to head down to the rose garden.
By the time we get there and I see my father in his tux with tears in his eyes, everything gets real. My stomach knots. My palms sweat. Elizabeth hands me my bouquet.
“You ready, Bean?” my dad asks, calling me by my childhood nickname.
I nod, my throat too tight for me to speak.
I have absolutely no idea if these are good nerves or bad nerves but the music is playing, the bridal party is marching down the aisle two-by-two, and this is happening.
I can only hope that when I get to the altar and look into my beloved’s eyes, all this tension, all this doubt will fade away.
Last night, I lay in his arms and told him I was scared that we weren’t making the right decision. He assured me he was mine forever. No one else’s. And that it would always be that way. He promised he’d love me until his last, dying breath.
I closed my eyes and dreamed of Gabriel.
Our guests rise as my father leads me down a white silk aisle covered in pastel pink rose petals.
Through the pale haze of my veil, I look to my future husband, our gazes intersecting, and in that moment, I think of his sweet words, the way he took me in his arms and softened my worries, shouldered my concerns. Dorian smiles, dimples and all, and the knots in my stomach begin to untangle.
“Dearly beloved,” our officiant, the Hawthornes’ beloved and longtime minister, begins, “we are gathered here today and in the presence of God to witness the joining in Holy Matrimony of Dorian Clark Hawthorne the Third and Olivia Ann Peretti. Marriage is an honorable state, instituted by God since the first man and woman walked this earth. Therefore, it is not to be entered into lightly, but reverently. Who gives this woman to this man?”
My arm is still linked in my father’s, and I look to him, finding him holding a subdued smile. His blue eyes are glassy, and he’s doing his best to keep it together. I squeeze his arm and he pats my hand.
“Her mother and I do,” my father answers.
From my periphery, I spot Dorian’s mother dabbing the corners of her eye with a linen handkerchief. I’d be willing to bet those aren’t happy tears, but she makes them appear that way nevertheless.
My father lifts my veil and kisses my cheek before placing my hand in Dorian’s and returning to his seat next to Mom.
“Into this holy estate, these two persons present come now to be joined," the officiant continues. “If anyone can show just cause as to why these two should not be married, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
My stomach clenches for a second. I thought we’d agreed to leave that part of the ceremony out. In my opinion, it’s a bit old-fashioned as well as unnecessary.
No one objects at weddings.
This isn’t the movies.
A moment later, the minister’s eyes lift over his wire-rimmed glasses toward the sea of guests—and then I hear the gasps.
Turning toward the crowd of friends and family, I can’t believe what I’m witnessing.
Someone is objecting at our wedding ...
… and that someone is Gabriel.
Dorian releases my hand and takes a step, like he’s going to confront the man in front of all these people. Then he stops, knowing his parents would heavily frown upon his making a scene in the middle of his wedding, but honestly, the scene started when Gabriel stood.
I reach for Dorian’s arm, pulling him back to the altar, though my focus is entirely on the man in the cashmere sweater and dark khakis with the striking golden gaze and inky dark hair.
Our guests begin to whisper and comment amongst themselves, and I don’t need to glance at my future mother-in-law to know she’s in the early stages of a conniption fit.
Locking eyes with Gabriel, I mouth the words, “What are you doing?”
“Stopping you from making the biggest mistake of your life,” he says, loud enough so even the people in the back row can hear him. “You can’t marry him.”
Humiliation stains my cheeks a shade of pink as all eyes travel between the two of us.
“Olivia, do you know this man?” Dorian whispers, leaning close.
I turn to him. “I met him last night. At the bar. We talked but ...”
I’m so confused.
We didn’t flirt. We didn’t do anything inappropriate. We simply had a meaningful conversation and that was that.
“Can someone call security?” Dorian calls out, rolling his eyes. His arms lift before clapping against his sides. Someone scrambles toward the hotel, padding over the satin aisle runner and into the grassy space that separates the building from the rose garden.
“Wait,” I say, gathering my dress in my hands and heading down the aisle toward the back row where Gabriel stands.
There’s no salvaging this moment so I might as well hear him out, but I’m going to do it in private, not in front of hundreds of prying eyes and pricked ears.
“Olivia,” Dorian calls at me like an owner calling their dog. “Olivia, what do you think you’re doing?”
“I’ll be right back,” I tell him.
When I reach Gabriel, I motion for him to follow me inside.
“You’re insane,” is the first thing I tell him. The second? “This better be worth it.”
But I regret the words the second I say them. If this is worth it, it means the wedding is a mistake.
Dorian’s eyes focus on mine, and he licks his lips before pulling in a hard breath.
“There’s no easy way to tell you this,” he says in a way that makes my stomach plummet. “But last night, about an hour after you went back to your room … your fiancé came down to the bar. And he was with some girl named Elizabeth.”
My heart free falls and the sting of tears threatens my vision.
“No ...” I say, “He left my room and went back to his ...”
“Clearly he lied to you.”
“And Elizabeth is my best friend. My maid of honor. He wouldn’t—”
“—he did. And he has. Apparently it's been going on for quite a while,” he tells me. “At least that’s what I gathered from the conversation they had.”
I think of Elizabeth and the mystery man at work she’s been pining after the last couple of years, the one who’s always “unavailable” and “refuses to commit.”
All this time, was she talking about Dorian?