I’m almost too afraid to make plans at this point, but I have my lawyer looking into how quickly—and quietly—I can get this marriage annulled.
“Who knows,” she goes on breezily as she starts for the door. “Maybe Thomas will end up being a better husband than Étienne ever could have been.”
“I told you, I’mnotstaying married to him.”
But my words are lost to the wind as she steps back inside.
If I have to field another pitying glance or mock-sympatheticHow are you…really?from one more wedding guest, I’m going to scream.
I’ve never been more thankful for my parents, who intervened after the dozenth attempt to mine me for juicy details about Étienne and what I did to make him leave me so dramatically. Dad gently guided the husband of the couple off with generic chatter about golf while Mom gave the wife a loud backhanded compliment about her dress.
It gave me a chance to escape the people milling around in the receiving area of the church, and I slipped into the sunshiny flower-draped nave instead. On the bride’s side, I slid down the pew until I was as far away from anyone else as possible, thenpulled out my phone to watch the countdown timer for when I could open Instagram next.
Things are…bad. So bad that I’ve had to set screen time limits for myself to prevent any doomscrolling. All the news I’ve gotten so far about the situation has come from my publicist, lawyer, and assistant, each of their texts and calls limited to only the most pertinent information. The last thing I need is to have a meltdown in the middle of Janelle’s big day because I stumbled on something that set me off.
Only in the past hour have I been identified as the “mystery woman” on Thomas’s lap. I might be offended by how long it took everyone to figure out it was me if I weren’t sick over it instead, but I guess that’s what happens when you’re objectively less famous than the man you were spotted with. And had he been less famous, I’m sure this wouldn’t be as big a deal as it’s blowing up to be.
It could be worse, though. There’s still no news of our marriage, and getting caught with a race car driver is certainly better than being spotted with an athlete from a more well-known sport in the good old US of A. It would be game over if he was a Super Bowl–winning quarterback or an all-time points scorer of an NBA team. But a Formula 1 driver? Sorry to my good man, but in the grand scheme of sports, he’s not at the top of the charts.
Still, I just want to know what people are saying about me. It’s silly, and IknowI shouldn’t care. I never really did in the past, because unless it affected my company, I figured people’s opinions of me were none of my business. But again, Étienne’s betrayal has shifted something in my mind that suddenly has me desperate to be in the know.
The countdown finally hits zero and I tap on the app,opening it up as quickly as my fingers can manage. I only have two minutes before it will lock me out again, and I’m going to make the most of those 120 seconds.
“ ‘Get your grubby little hands off my man, you chocolate bitch,’ ” I read quietly to myself, frowning at the latest comment in my Instagram notifications. The racial undertone isn’t great, but hey, at least they said my hands were little.
I scroll, desperately searching for a comment with more substance, but a gentle touch on my shoulder has me glancing up.
“I think it’s time to put the phone down, love.”
Thomas stares at me with a knowing smile, like he’s well aware of what I’ve been up to. He’s wearing a beautifully tailored three-piece suit in dove gray, and it pains me to admit that he looks spectacular in it, possibly even better than he did in the tux last night.
He’s back to being clean-shaven, with his hair perfectly swept back, and the whiff I get of his cologne has me breathing deeper. If he’s still feeling rough, like I am, I’d never be able to tell.
I scowl in return as he drops down next to me on the pew. “Shouldn’t you be sitting on the groom’s side? Somewhere far away from me?”
He points toward the aisle, and I follow his finger to a sign that readsChoose a seat, not a side.“According to that, I can sit wherever I want.”
Damn Janelle and her quaint tastes. “I’m not sure we should be seen together.”
I swear there’s a flash of something wary in his eyes, but it disappears when he blinks, and I convince myself that I imagined it.
“We’ve already been seen together,” he points out. “What’sone more instance? Promise to keep my hands to myself this time.”
I see his point. It’s not like there’s anyone else here I want to talk to, and he’s a good buffer for avoiding more stilted inquiries into how I’m doing. Not to mention a good distraction from checking my phone—which I am now once again locked out of.
I slink lower in my seat and glance at him from the corner of my eye. “How are you holding up?”
“Not great,” he says cheerfully. “I amsowickedly hungover that I doubt I’ll be able to legally drive a car by this time next week.”
A wheezing laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “I feel the same way.”
“Bit more of a problem for me, considering that’s my entire job.”
“Should have thought of that before ordering that bottle of whiskey, now, shouldn’t you?”
“Live and learn, I suppose.”
We fall into silence as a handful of people sit in front of us. The ceremony’s due to start in about ten minutes, and knowing Janelle, the procession will begin on the dot.
