Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
ANTOINE
T he room is everything you’d expect from a French city hall that doubles as a wedding venue. It has the requisite ornate moldings on the ceiling and walls, chandeliers dripping with crystals, and massive arched windows that flood the space with light, and the revolutionary tricolor.
I feel like a total fraud.
Wait until you have to look into her eyes and say, “I do!”
Shuddering at the thought, I adjust the sleeve of my ridiculous yellow tuxedo. The fabric scratches. The white tee beneath it clings to my body. It’s much too tight for my taste. I’m sporting unkempt stubble that’s supposed to be cool. There’s some disgusting gel in my hair.
Anything to please my bride!
My earlobes are itchy where piercings that dig into my skin. I’d begged for fake ones, but Pedro was adamant they had to be real. The tattoos on my upper arms are real, too. As in, permanent, unless I get them burned off when this is over. The alternative is to wear long sleeves for the rest of my life.
Aren’t I lucky?
To my right, Henri shifts in his seat. He looks stiff in the ill-fitting suit he borrowed from his housekeeper. Henri’s fiancée, Gigi, sits next to him, a picture of dimmed elegance in her deliberately unremarkable dress and plastic jewelry. If you don’t know her, you wouldn’t guess she’s a royal princess.
Gigi and Henri are here to represent “the Bellays”—without the particle. Gigi gives me a faint smile. I return it, even though I doubt the grimace I manage qualifies as a smile.
Across the aisle, the bride’s side is livelier. Madame Hua Yang and her sister-in-law Mei Yang sit front and center, flanked by a cluster of Laura’s friends. The production didn’t expect Laura’s family to show up, but it looks like her mom and aunt took pity on her. The other person I recognize from Laura’s file is her bestie Denise, with her bright red lipstick and matching hair.
In the back, the show’s loyal fans stir restlessly. They paid to watch this live, and they’ll rewatch it on TV next week. Unbelievable.
Isabelle picks up the mic. “Ladies and Gentlemen, viewers at home, this is the moment we’ve all been waiting for!”
The live audience claps enthusiastically.
“Will the next bride and groom say yes to each other?” Isabelle inquires of the universe. “Stay tuned to find out!”
The room erupts in applause once again. I fight the urge to roll my eyes as Isabelle gestures to the camera crew for a commercial break. Some intern scurries forward to offer me a glass of water.
I wave him off. “No, thank you.”
“Isn’t this exciting, brother?” Henri whispers with an evil gleam in his eye.
I don’t deign to answer. Right now, all my mental energy is consumed by fighting the urge to tear the piercings out of my ears and scratch the spots like the world ends tonight.
In a manner of speaking, it does.
Gigi smothers a laugh behind her hand.
Well, at least someone’s enjoying this.
The commercial break is over. I am told to stand near the altar. The music changes to some orchestral nonsense that’s supposed to sound romantic.
Isabelle shrieks into her microphone, “Here comes the bride!”
All eyes turn to the double doors at the back of the room. They swing open. I brace myself.
I’ve studied the file. I know exactly who’s walking toward me—a silly Parisian chick whose breasts are as full as her skull is hollow. I’ve read a copy of her application letter in which she describes what she’s looking for in a man. In short, the few neurons this woman has are fixated on finding the worst possible husband material so she can marry him.
You go, girl!
Laura is being walked to the altar by an Asian man I recognize instantly. It’s her father, Zhou Yang. His face is stoic, resigned. If he has more sense than his daughter, which doesn’t take much, then I sincerely pity him.
I let my gaze travel over Laura’s carefully chosen outfit. Her dress is actually nice. Lacy, formfitting and long, it’s perfect for a made-for-TV moment. I expected a more daring number, revealing a great deal more flesh. But the producers must’ve persuaded her to keep it on the right side of gaudy.
The closer she draws, the more something feels off about her. She does look very much like the woman in the file. The same face. The same curvy, well-proportioned frame and long, glossy hair. But there’s a side to her that the photos had failed to capture.
Could it be the hesitation in her step? The quivering hand? The downcast eyes? She won’t look at me as if she’s scared she’ll hate what she sees.
Hmm, I thought she’d be ballsy…
I’d assume her nerves got the better of her spunk, only there’s more weirdness. Her full breasts are hot without being lurid. While they do fight gravity, they don’t deny its existence. I detect none of that vulgar watermelon-like hardness that characterizes cheap implants.
Maybe she was able to afford expensive ones.
Sure, it’s possible. But what’s probable is that I’m looking at a pair of naturally magnificent breasts.
The other inconsistency with Laura’s file is something about her round-cheeked, heart-shaped face. I zero in on her mouth. In the photos, she wore a garish red lipstick, plastered over the contours of her lips. Today, she’s just applied some pink gloss, revealing a Cupid’s bow of an upper lip that’s thinner than the lower.
Where’s the inflated Instagrammable mouth I expected to see?
I glance back at Henri and Gigi. They’re watching Laura, too. Gigi whispers something in his ear, and he nods.
As Laura reaches the altar, her gaze lands on me for a fraction of a second, and then she looks away.
Does she like my flashy tux? My bad-boy stubble? The ear piercings?
Her father lets go of her hand and steps back. Unlike Laura, he doesn’t shy away from staring at me. Mixed emotions flash across his face. He clearly hates my style, but he doesn’t seem entirely displeased with my height and shape. Or my face.
I know that Laura recently dated a musician whom her parents disapproved of. He was twenty-five, three years younger than Laura. I have nine years on him, and six on her. Papa Yang must be pleased at least about that.
“Laura,” Isabelle’s voice, overly cheerful, interrupts my thoughts. “Meet for the very first time Antoine, the match we found for you.”
Laura looks up at me, her expression inquisitive. Her eyes flick to the piercing in my ear, then to my yellow tuxedo. Her lips twitch, like she’s fighting a smile.
“Antoine,” Isabelle says. “Meet for the very first time, Laura, the bride you’ve been looking for.”
I peer at her, increasingly suspicious she might not be quite what MESS had prepped me for.
So, here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to hold back the salacious jokes I learned for her benefit. If I want her to like me and help me find the seventh key, my best strategy for the next few days is to do more listening than talking.