Stella
“Can you believe this is your third wedding but still only your first marriage?”
I glance over at where Mika is lounging on the bed in the bridal suite—which is really just one of the many guest bedrooms in the Maxwell-Browns’ manor—and blink as I take that fact in.
“Huh.” I have to laugh, because, really, isn’t that kind of outrageous? “Hadn’t thought about it that way.”
Also sprawled on the bed, Janelle smooths out her crimson matron of honor dress as she sits up. She may not have been in the bridal party of my first wedding, but I wasn’t going to miss out on having her next to me at this one.
“And no offense to your last two weddings,” Janelle says, “but this one is a hell of a lot better.”
As much as it pains me to admit, considering I put so much time, effort, and money into my wedding with Étienne, Iris has planned an absolute masterpiece. When I stepped outside earlier to take in the multiple marquees, the overflow of fresh florals, and a glimpse of the Michelin-starred menus—yes,plural—I knew it was going to be the event of the season, if not the year.
“Our mother might not be good at much,” Geneva drawls from where she’s preening in front of the mirror, also wearing a matching crimson bridesmaid dress, “but when it comes to weddings and themed parties, she’s the best of the best.”
“Just wait until her midsummer fete,” Calais adds, and I glance down to where she’s kneeling at my feet, adjusting the hem of my flowing gown. “Pure bacchanalia. You’ll need a week to recover.”
The expectation that I’ll be there fills a spot in my chest I didn’t realize was hollow. As much as I don’t view leaving my life in DC as giving something up, it’s a relief knowing I have another life waiting for me here—one with family and friends and a man who worships at my altar. Even my career will be just fine. It’s the sweetest of fresh starts, more than I could have asked for.
But the best part is that Ididn’task for any of it. There’s not a single part of me that would have prayed to meet a pretty-eyed race car driver and marry into his elite, upper-crust British family. In fact, it sounds like a fucking nightmare on paper, and yet here I am, being dressed by one of my sisters-in-law while my mother-in-law wrangles vendors in order to make this the perfect day. I’m so happy that tears burn the backs of my eyes.
“Hey, no crying over inevitable orgies in the garden,” Amara snaps at me, darting over so she can dab delicately under my eyes with a tissue. “I’m sorry, but that’s just the kind of family you’ve joined. You know how these old-money people are. Wait until you hear about all the blood sacrifices.”
I let out a watery laugh, eyes swinging to the ceiling so I don’t ruin my makeup. “I guess I’ll have to find a way to cope.”
“We’ll teach you the proper etiquette,” Geneva teases.“Nothing worse than not knowing the protocol for—” A sharp knock on the door cuts her short.
I glance over, expecting to find one of the wedding coordinators telling me it’s time to get the show on the road. But to my surprise, it’s Daphne standing in the doorway, lips pursed as she takes in the crowd. When her eyes land on me, some of the tension in her expression fades, though there’s still something in her eyes that has me concerned.
She clears her throat. “Stella, can we talk?”
I could absolutely tell her to fuck off. I probably should. Instead, I find myself nodding and waving her in. Maybe it’s morbid curiosity, or maybe I want the chance to threaten her not to sell any details of this wedding to the press, but we need to chat.
Daphne waits for everyone else to file out before primly taking a seat on the edge of the bed. Unlike my first wedding, I’m not wearing a massive ballgown, which means I can easily take a seat across from her at the vanity without looking like a fool. I’ll probably need one last steaming of the perfectly tailored ivory column dress before I walk down the aisle, but even if I don’t get the chance, the wrinkles will be worth it to have this confrontation.
“I didn’t even know you were here,” I say when Daphne makes no move to speak.
I don’t necessarily say it to hurt her—I legitimately had no idea she was on the guest list—but I’m done playing nice with someone who has never played nice with me.
Daphne frowns. “Of course I am. We’re family.”
Not like you ever act like it.
“I would show up even if you were getting married in the middle of the Amazon,” she goes on, probably having seen my doubt. “We’ve had our differences over the years, but we’re still blood, Stella. I’m never going to stop supporting you.”
A flash of anger surges through me. “Running to the press with every detail about me being left at the altar was yousupportingme?”
It’s the first time I’ve flat-out accused her and I wait for her to start spluttering and denying it. But Daphne sighs and lifts her hands in defeat. She’s not denying anything.
My God, she really did it, and she doesn’t even care that I know.
“I was trying to help you,” she says, to which I give a scoff, leaving her to speak a little louder when she continues. “No, seriously, I was. And Idid.”
“Are you kidding me?” I shake my head, disgusted. “Fuck outta here with that. You haven’t helped me at all.”
“You can believe that all you want. But have you paid any attention to what’s going on with Étienne lately?” she demands.
My lips part to retort, but I shut them again when I realize that no, I haven’t, actually. At first, I didn’t feel strong enough to look into him and his life without me, and once I was, I just didn’t care anymore. I have literally no clue what’s happening with him.
