“There was also alcohol involved,” Thomas says apologetically.
I want to kick him for admitting that. Then again, how else could we explain such a rash decision? The world is well aware that I don’t make the best choices while drinking, and my parents know it too. Their intelligent, levelheaded daughter wouldn’t pull a stunt like this without some sort of influence.
“Our feelings for each other are very real, though,” Thomas continues before I can butt in with another explanation. “This wedding was rushed, yes, and certainly an on-the-fly decision, but I have no regrets.”
My desire to inflict harm on him wanes with how genuine he sounds. I know it’s an act, but it’s a good one, and judging by the way Dad’s face softens, Thomas is on the right track. Well, with one of my parents at least.
“Not a single regret?” Mom has found her voice, and it’s dripping with doubt. “You don’t regret that you’ve never met us? Or that Stella kept you a secret for all this time? Or that you’ve rushed into this binding contract with a woman who’s just had her life turned upside down by a man and is clearly still trying to heal from that?”
“Mom,” I snap, but Thomas’s thumb brushing the inside ofmy wrist distracts me from following it up with anything too harsh. “I wasn’t some unwilling participant, so don’t make it out like he’s taking advantage of me. I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you guys about it beforehand, and I’m sorry that you found out like this, but we’re married, and that’s that.”
She throws her hands up with a scoff, whirling to face my father. “Is this girl for real?” she asks him. “Are we just supposed to accept this?”
Dad is solemn as he stares down at his wife. “I think we all need to take some time to process what’s going on. We can discuss this more when everyone’s calmer.”
Mom makes another sound of distaste, but she knows he’s right. She turns back to Thomas and me, expression flickering between confusion and hurt.
“We’re flying back to Atlanta in the morning,” she says tightly. “Will we see you there for Thanksgiving?”
I nod. I’ll be there, at least. Who knows about the man standing next to me, though, because anything could happen in the next twelve days.
“Good. We’ll talk more then.”
With that, she turns on her heel and strides out of the room as quickly as she came in.
Dad’s slower, coming over to kiss my forehead and shake Thomas’s hand—a bit too firmly, but at least he makes the effort—before backing away.
“Call us if you need anything,” he says, and then he’s gone too.
I stare at the empty doorway, praying I’ll suddenly wake up and realize all of this was just a bad dream. But when that doesn’t happen, I whirl on Thomas and yank my hand out of his.
“That was so bad,” I hiss. “This is never going to work!”
He’s paler than he was earlier, but there’s a deluded determination written across his face. “It will,” he urges. “That was just a little stumble.”
“Astumble? I almost made it sound like I was cheating on Étienne, and you admitted we were drunk!”
“It wasn’t my finest moment,” he admits. “But really, were they going to believe anything else?”
I groan and throw my head back because no, they wouldn’t have, and I hate that it’s the only part of the truth we can share with them. Maybe I should have told them the whole wedding was a mistake and how we’re trying to make the best of a bad situation. There’s still time. I could chase after them and confess it all.
But when I look at Thomas again, I know we went with our best option. At least we have a story to tell the world now.
“I need to get out of here,” I mumble. “I want to go to bed and leave this shitty day behind.”
“Then let’s go.” He gathers my things and passes them over before putting a guiding hand to my shoulder. “I’ll tell my driver to meet us at the back exit.”
I should thank him for getting us out of here as stealthily as possible, but my throat is too tight to force more words out. Still, I hope the weak smile I flash after we slip into the back seat of the sedan says more than I currently can. When he returns it, the vise grip around my esophagus eases some.
We’re both too lost in our own thoughts for the silence to be awkward, though I know we’re going to have to speak to each other soon enough. We have at least a thirty-minute drive ahead of us, plenty of time to get the basics of our plan down as we head back into the heart of Las Vegas, but I’m still struggling for words ten minutes in.
“Your name’s Estelle?”
I glance over, relieved that he’s kicked off this conversation but also wincing at the reminder of my mother’s tirade.
“I was named after my great-grandmother,” I explain. “But my parents always call me Stella. Unless, of course, I’m in trouble, as you just saw.”
He nods like he’s filing that information away. “Guess it’s a good thing I know your full name now. Probably something a husband should know about his wife.”
