13. Genevieve
13
GENEVIEVE
W edding planning is a dizzying flurry of activity.
I haven’t seen Rowan in days—not since the night of our engagement party—but he’s been on my mind constantly. He can’t not be, since I’m mostly occupied planning a wedding in what must be a world-record shortness of time.
Rowan told me the night that we signed the contract that the wedding would happen quickly, on account of his father’s health. But the added deadline of getting me pregnant has only added urgency. I know Rowan is thinking of the ticking clock, that if I’m not pregnant despite our best efforts by the time his father passes, none of this will matter. He’ll lose his inheritance anyway, and then what?
I slip a summer sundress over my head, criss-crossing the straps in the back and tying them off as I glance in the mirror. The dress is long enough that it hides most of my cast in the front, but I can still see it peeking out from just under the skirt. And, of course, whenever I move, the slits in the side open and show it all off.
I blow out a sharp breath as I look in the mirror. Pretty much every skirt or dress I own, I bought because they show off my legs to their best effect. I’ve always been proud of my legs—always thought they were my best feature. Now I’m paying for that vanity, I guess. There’s no hiding the cast that envelops my leg from foot to mid-calf.
I’m going to be wearing it when I walk—or rather, hobble—down the aisle, for fuck’s sake. Rowan tried to convince his father that we should have a small, private ceremony, in order to spare me that. It was sweet of him—yet another sweet thing from a man who has turned out to be surprisingly thoughtful. It almost makes me want to soften towards him, but I can’t. Especially not now that we’re going to be married.
Especially not after the way he kissed me the night of our engagement party.
Unthinking, I reach up and touch my lips, remembering the way it felt. No one has ever kissed me like that before. Like he was hungry for me. Like he’d imagined the kiss a hundred times before it ever happened. I remember how it felt to be in his lap, leaning against his hard chest as his mouth devoured mine, his thick cock pressed against my?—
I shake my head, clearing the fantasy. It will be reality soon enough, but that reality needs to be clinical. Detached. A job.
If I let it be anything else, I’ll be asking for trouble. Rowan could be trouble. He’s infuriating and mischievous and reckless…but he also makes me want things, makes me feel things that I never have before. And very soon, I’m going to be his wife.
I have to keep some distance, or I’ll start believing the fiction we’ve made up.
A knock comes at the door. “Genevieve?” Dahlia calls from outside. “Are you almost ready to go?”
“Just about. You can come in,” I call back, and the door opens, Dahlia stepping inside.
She’s wearing a pretty floral wrap dress that shows off the slight swell of her four-month bump in a way that makes her look like she should be in a catalog for maternity wear. She’s as beautiful as ever, her blonde hair curled and pulled up in a high, bouncy ponytail, her blue eyes sparkling with excitement. “I’m so excited to go shop for your wedding dress,” she says, sinking onto the edge of the bed as I pull my hair back into a neat bun. After years of ballet, I can’t bring myself to do a messy bun, no matter how stylish it might be. “Evelyn will be here in a few minutes.”
I take one more look at my hair, the light coming in through the window catching on my ring as I smooth a last loose piece into place. I look at the solitaire sparkling on my finger, and my chest tightens.
I never imagined myself engaged. But I definitely never imagined it like this.
Dahlia hands me my crutches, and I follow her slowly out of the bedroom—a ground-floor guest room, thank goodness—and out to the car, where Evelyn is waiting. She’s wearing a white eyelet sundress, her hair loose, sipping a glass of orange juice.
“There’s champagne,” Evelyn says with a laugh. “Even though Dahlia and I can’t have any. I thought you might want some. You only go wedding dress shopping once.”
It’s a sentiment I remember us expressing to Dahlia, trying to cheer her up despite how thoroughly unhappy she was about her marriage at the time. I smile and nod, biting my tongue. I can’t tell either of them that—who knows? I might get married again, one day in the future, though it’s hardly the main thing on my mind right now. Neither of them can know how temporary this is.
I make myself a mimosa, the dry bite of the champagne distracting me from the tempest in my head. I intend to enjoy the day for what it is—a chance to go shopping with my best friends and pick out a beautiful dress, courtesy of the funds Rowan gave me for the event—even if it is all a sham.
And he gave me more than enough. There’s a five-figure sum sitting in an account for me to use, and he told me that he wouldn’t hear an argument to the contrary—although I had no intention of arguing with him.
If I’m going to marry him and have a baby for him, then I don’t have the slightest problem with letting him pay for my wedding dress.
We have a private appointment at the bridal boutique, and the sales associate—a pretty brunette named Maisie—is waiting for us when we arrive. There are more mimosas and champagne, and a little tray of the kind of small sandwiches and cakes that might be served at a tea party. The whole boutique has a very pink, Victorian feel to it, and it’s honestly adorable.
“A client told me about this place,” Evelyn says as we settle in. “It’s new, but I’ve been hearing rave reviews about the service and selection. I thought it might be fun.”
“I love it already.” I pour myself a second mimosa, looking around as Maisie brings me a questionnaire to fill out to help me decide on my ‘bridal style’. Since I won’t be dancing anytime soon—if ever again—I might as well enjoy the ability to have a second drink when I feel like it.
Once the questionnaire is filled out, Maisie takes me into the pink-and-white dressing room, complete with a little fringed velvet stool and a large mirror, and starts bringing me armfuls of dresses. I try on style after style—everything from a Cinderella-like ballgown made from heavy Mikado satin to a spaghetti-strap slinky dress made from thin, papery silk that could be a nightgown, and nothing really feels right .
“Do you have any other ideas?” I ask, and Maisie frowns.
“I’ll be right back,” she says, taking an armful of gowns with her, and disappears.
She comes back with three more dresses, citing them as less ‘traditional.” I’d said on my questionnaire that my style always trends towards casual, simple elegance, but all of the dresses that fit that style felt boring to me. Neither Dahlia nor Evelyn seemed particularly wowed by them either, and Evelyn’s opinion especially is one that I want. After all, I don’t know anyone who knows more about design or fashion than she does.
The three that Maisie brings in, though, immediately have promise.
The first, I’m unsure about. It’s a strapless ballgown style, with a fitted bodice made of smooth, heavy satin with visible boning, and a full skirt that has cascades of satin roses spilling down one side, pulled up to reveal a lace inset. For one thing, the lace inset is on the side that my cast is, so it’s very visible. For another, I feel like a cupcake—which is the first thing I say when I step out to let Evelyn and Dahlia see.
“You kind of look like a cupcake,” Dahlia agrees. “I’m not sure about that one.”
I retreat back into the dressing room, getting out of the dress as best I can. I’m already exhausted from trying to get in and out of the dresses with one leg in a cast, and I’m trying my best not to let it ruin the day. I almost trip over the voluminous hem, and bite my lip, blinking back tears.
My whole life, I’ve worked hard to be agile and graceful. I’ve put thousands of hours of work into it. And now I feel like a baby deer learning to walk.
I swallow hard, carefully stepping into the next gown that Maisie has for me—a silver strapless column dress that sparkles even under the dressing room lights. I can see bits of light glinting off the metallic thread that the entire dress is woven with, and it’s truly gorgeous—but it looks like a gown for a gala, not a wedding dress.
Which just leaves the last option that she brought in.
The moment she slips it off the hanger, I have a feeling that it’s the one. It’s another strapless ballgown, with a similar smooth, stiff bodice and a straight-across neckline, but the skirt is remarkably similar in theme to the dress I chose for the engagement party.
The entire skirt is made up of layer after layer of soft white feathers. That smooth, stiff bodice comes down further than most, skimming all the way down to my hips before spilling out into the cascades of feathers that flow down to the floor and pool out around me, forming a chapel-length train behind me. It gives me the illusion of having more curves than I actually do, the bodice molded to me as if poured on. The severity of it draws the eye to my neck and collarbones and shoulders, and the fluffy skirt hides my cast entirely. I can’t completely disguise my injury—I’ll have to have a crutch to get down the aisle—but at least the hideous cast won’t be visible.
When I step out, Evelyn gasps. Dahlia’s eyes go wide. And when Maisie brings me a pearl headband to slip into my hair, with a long, simple veil attached to it, I’m certain that it’s the one.
The price is staggering, but fortunately, I don’t have to worry about it. I swipe the card that Rowan gave me easily, wait for Maisie to take my measurements for the rush alterations to make sure the dress fits me perfectly, then the three of us head back out to the car, and to one of our favorite little cafés for an early lunch.
“Has Chris tried to get in touch with you at all?” Dahlia asks, once we’ve settled in with our drinks and a charcuterie board for an appetizer. “Or has he just moved on?”
“He’s sent me a lot of texts,” I admit, although I don’t want to let on exactly what those texts have been. The truth is that he’s been blowing up my phone since that night when Rory brought it back from the penthouse, and like that night, the texts and voicemails have ranged from him pleading with me just to talk, to calling me a bitch and telling me I’ll be sorry, before switching back to asking me to just listen to him and reconsider.
Dahlia frowns. “What kind of texts?” she asks, as if she can see the answer on my face. “Genevieve, if he’s threatening you, or making you uncomfortable?—”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly, because I know how that statement ends. “I don’t want Dimitri or Alek getting involved in this. I don’t want anyone getting involved in it, honestly. I just want it to end. I’m ignoring all his calls and texts, and he’ll get tired of trying eventually. I don’t know why he’s trying at all, honestly,” I add, reaching for a piece of Manchego cheese and dragging it through the small pool of honey at one end of the board. “He loved that I was a ballerina. I was like this living piece of art that he got to have on his arm and say he was dating. Now that I’m not that any longer, I don’t know what he gets out of a relationship with me. It’s not like we were in love.”
“Some men just want to be in control of when and how things end,” Evelyn says, folding up a piece of prosciutto and setting it on a cracker with blueberry goat cheese. “They don’t like being told when they’re going to lose something. I don’t know if it’s about feeling so much as it is about control.”
“Maybe you’re right.” I shrug. “But he’s not in control of this. And now I’m engaged to Rowan. He’s going to give up.” I repeat it, more firmly this time. “He’s just having a hard time hearing ‘no,’ like you said. But he’ll get tired of me giving him the cold shoulder. I think he was cheating on me anyway,” I add, and both Dahlia and Evelyn look at me in horror.
“And you didn’t care?” Dahlia exclaims.
I shrug. “I did, but mostly because that wasn’t the agreement we had. I was good—I stayed faithful and kept up my end of the deal. And I don’t think he did. So—” I give Dahlia and Evelyn a half-smile. “Good riddance, right? This will be better.”
“I’m still not convinced Rowan is a good choice for a husband,” Evelyn says. “But I trust your judgment.”
I wish I did, I can’t help but think as I reach for my glass of white wine. Ever since the night of the party, when I smelled that perfume coming off of Chris’s shirt, I’ve wondered if my judgment has been all wrong. That feeling has only worsened through the mess of events that have unfolded since then. But I’m locked in now.
I just have to hang on for the ride, whatever comes next.
—
That feeling of certainty that I just have to wait out Chris’s tantrums until he gets tired of trying to convince me vanishes the moment that we pull into the driveway of Dahlia’s house, and I see Chris’s black Jaguar parked out front. He’s leaning against the side of it, wearing a dark suit and sunglasses that he slips off as soon as he sees our town car pulling in.
“I’ll text Alek,” Dahlia says, catching sight of Chris. “Alek will send someone out to make him leave?—”
“No, I’ll handle it,” I say quickly. I’m not entirely sure that Alek might not come out himself, and that’s going to open up a whole other nest of problems if the two of them get into a fight. I don’t need someone else knocking Chris out cold. “I promise, it’s fine. Just let me talk to him, and I’ll be inside in a minute.”
“If you’re sure.” Dahlia frowns, but she gives Evelyn a quick hug, slipping out of the car. I do the same, gathering up my crutches and following Dahlia, who I see shoots Chris a dirty look on her way toward the front door of the brownstone. The moment she opens the door, I hear Puff barking, and Chris makes a face.
That contemptuous look doesn’t fade as his gaze sweeps over me, taking me in as I hobble toward him on my crutches. He looks at me with what seems like a mixture of disgust and pity, and then his expression smooths as he straightens, just as I stop in front of him.
“You haven’t answered any of my calls or texts.” He looks at me, his bright blue eyes meeting mine. “Did that driver who came to the penthouse not give it back to you? I know, by the way,” he says derisively. “I have security cameras.”
“I know you do. And Rory did give me my phone back.”
“So why haven’t you answered me?” He looks genuinely confused, and it almost makes me want to laugh. He clearly can’t fathom why I wouldn’t be inclined to talk to him.
I open my mouth to reply, when Chris’s gaze drifts to my hand, and he sees the engagement ring there.
His eyes narrow, darkening with anger in an instant, and his gaze flies back up to mine. “Well, there’s my answer,” he says coldly. His tone drops, every word icy as he speaks. “Is it that Irish dickhead, Genevieve? Were you lying to me the whole fucking time?”
I take a slow breath, stepping back a little as best as I can on my crutches. “Yes, and no,” I start to say, but Chris cuts me off before I can keep speaking.
“Fuck you, Genevieve,” he spits. “Fuck you, bitch. You told me there was nothing going on. You fucking lying cunt?—”
“Stop it!” I snap. “If Dahlia’s husband sees or hears you acting like this, you’re going to regret it. You should go.”
A cold smile spreads across his lips. “Is that a threat?”
I shake my head. “I’m not threatening you, Chris. I’m just giving you the facts. You don’t want to deal with Alek. I’ve been trying to keep all of this quiet, just between the two of us, so that neither he nor Dimitri gets involved. If they knew you hit me?—”
“Apparently you had it coming. Cheating bitch,” he spits, and I take another step back, staggering a little at the venom in his voice.
“I never lied to you,” I say evenly. “Rowan asked me to marry him after I left the penthouse with him. It was very—unexpected. There was nothing going on between us before that.”
“And you just expect me to believe that?”
I shrug, and I can see that my nonchalance is pissing him off even more. “You can believe whatever you want. But it’s the truth. He offered me an arrangement that made sense, and I said yes. That’s all there is to it, and it happened after we were already done.”
“I don’t believe you, you fucking bitch?—”
“Alright.” I shake my head. “Enough. We had a good run, Chris, but it always had an end date. I don’t know why you’re acting like this. It’s not like you wanted forever either?—”
His eyes flare with anger. “You have no idea what I wanted.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I think I have a pretty good idea. You wanted the prima ballerina that I used to be. I don’t think you’re interested in me as I am now. You wouldn’t want me like this if you met me today. And the way you’re acting just proves what I think.”
Chris sneers at me. “And what do you think?”
I take another step back, my heart hammering behind my ribs. “I think you’re just pissed that your toy got taken away before you chose to ditch me—not the other way around. And you’re angry that another, more powerful man stepped in.” I smile tightly at him, anger pulsing at my temples. “We’re done, Chris. I don’t want to see you again.”
Chris glares at me, and I see the muscle in his clenched jaw leap. “We’re not done, Genevieve,” he hisses. “You have no idea what kind of connections I have, the hell that I could make your life. More powerful? You don’t know the half of the people I do. You’re going to fucking regret this, you fucking?—”
The front door to the brownstone opens, and he looks up sharply. I follow his gaze and see Alek standing there, his arms crossed, eyes narrowed as he looks at Chris. I have no idea if he heard any of the conversation, but Chris backs down quickly.
“Watch your back, cunt,” he hisses, narrowing his eyes at me as he yanks open the door to his car. “Your Irish boyfriend can’t do shit about what I could do to you.”
He disappears into the car, revving the engine and spitting gravel as he speeds down the driveway, leaving me stumbling back to get out of the way. Alek comes down the steps, hurrying to my side and offering me his arm as he watches the Jaguar drive away.
“Are you alright, mladshaya sestra? ” His accent is thick—unlike Dimitri, who spent his whole life in New York City and has a lighter accent… and only ever speaks Russian to Evelyn—Alek often slips into it. A side effect of having spent years in a Russian prison, Dahlia told me once.
“I’m fine.” I give him a tight smile. “Just an ex being a dick. It’s nothing to worry about. What does that mean, anyway?” I ask, as I take his arm to help steady me up the driveway.
“Little sister.” Alek grins. “I always wanted one. Lucky for me, my marriage seems to have come with two of them.”
“I’m fine having you as my big brother.” I grin at him. “You scared Chris off.”
“I’ll do more than scare him,” he growls as he helps me up the steps. “You say the word, sestra . I’ll peel the skin from his face if he threatens you.”
I know . “It’s fine,” I assure him. “I’m fine. Just breakup drama, that’s all.”
Alek looks at me for a long moment, and I’m not sure if he entirely believes me. But he nods, finally, as we step into the house. “Still,” he says gruffly, “you tell me if you need anything.”
“I will,” I promise, hating that it’s a little bit of a lie. But I tell myself that it’s not much of one. Chris’s threats are empty, I’m sure of it. Just hot air, an angry man who’s pissed that someone else has gotten what he thinks he wants.
Nothing that warrants sending Alek after him, that’s for sure. I shudder, thinking of what Alek would do—I don’t think the comment about peeling faces was a euphemism. I think he’d actually do it.
Soon enough, I tell myself as I retreat to my room and sink down onto the bed, I’ll be married to Rowan. All of this will be behind me.
And I can start thinking about how I’m going to move on with my life.