Chapter 4
Chapter Four
FIONA
I ’m getting married today. It’s supposed to be the happiest day of my life. But as I come awake to the sound of voices outside my room, all I feel is dread. My room. Roman insisted we have separate ones. We’ve never slept in the same bed. Never shared more than a chaste kiss actually. I told Vivian he was old-fashioned, but that’s only part of the story. Although he’s always been kind to me, our relationship feels passionless.
I wonder again why he’s marrying me. Why would a wealthy, attractive, and powerful man pursue a broke, washed-up novelist with an invisible disability? Our romance has consisted of a whirlwind of fleeting moments and romantic gestures. From the beginning, he pursued me with the intent to marry me. It’s inexplicable.
Undeniably, I’m rushing into this. Rushing away from the memory and aftermath of the accident that killed my sister and toward the safety of this man, his wealth, the security he offers. But after my conversation with Vivian yesterday, I’m questioning everything. I shake my head. What Roman has to offer will be enough for me.
It has to be.
The door opens, and one of the servants rushes in. “ Levez-vous, Madame ,” she sings, buzzing around the room to open the drapes and flood the dim space with natural light. “It’s almost noon. The hair and makeup team is already here. I am Esther. I will help you into your dress when the time comes.” She stops and turns a beaming smile on me. “What can I have them bring you for breakfast?”
“Just coffee,” I mumble, rubbing my eyes.
The woman taps her phone and orders coffee, croissants, and fruit in French. I crack my neck. A croissant in the south of France before walking down the aisle to marry Roman certainly won’t hurt anything.
I stumble toward the bathroom and take a quick shower, then wrap myself in a deliciously plush cotton robe just as a half dozen men and women swarm into my room. Coffee is thrust into my hands, and I’m encouraged to sit in a chair so that an impeccably groomed man with a comb can go to work on my tangled tresses.
Esther speeds by and clicks on the television to the local news station. “Something for you to watch while you’re stuck there.”
“English subtitles please,” I request.
She presses a few buttons, and the English translations scroll across the bottom of the screen. “Looks like more drama for the royals,” she says with a laugh to no one in particular. The Prince of Wales’s face splashes across the screen.
I sip my coffee and take a bite of a croissant that melts in my mouth like it’s made of butter-flavored air. Mmmm. A redheaded woman brushes crumbs off my chin and starts blotting base there with a makeup sponge. I drop the rest of the croissant back on the plate.
Esther pulls my dress out of a massive, zippered bag with the help of two other workers, and they start fluffing and steaming the fabric. It seems like far too much lace. Too much overall volume. It’s the dress version of the Blob. I tell myself it’s just my simple childhood roots rearing their head. Admittedly, I know nothing about fashion. My sister and I were raised in a Catholic orphanage until we were fifteen and then bounced from foster home to foster home. I thought Versace was a brand of car until I was twenty-three.
I deferred to the fancy designer Roman commissioned, and I’m sure I won’t regret it. At least I think I’m sure.
The next time I glance at the TV, there’s a segment playing about a murder in Paris. My writer’s curiosity kicks into gear. The video pans to a body in front of the Fontaine Saint-Michel.
“What’s this about?” I sit up straighter, causing the man behind me to tug me back into place by the hair.
“Have you not heard of this, Ms. Morrow? Famous photographer from Etats-Unis, um, New York , murdered night before last. Lucy Vale.” Esther shakes her head. “Butchered her body. My husband suspects satanists. ”
“Satanists!” My brows shoot skyward.
“Because of the blood.”
“Was she drained of her blood?” I’m not sure why my mind goes there except that it seems very satanic.
“No, not that.” Esther waves a manicured hand like she’s try to find the words. “The murderer wrote an inscription above her head in her blood.” She points at the screen where Astra inclinant, sed non obligant stains the concrete. “The flesh of her back was flayed to look like wings, right under that statue of the angel killing the devil.”
“Religious extremists,” my hairdresser hisses with disgust. “Terrifying.”
“How something like this could happen.” Esther tsks and shakes her head. “Such a public place and no one saw it?”
“ Astra inclinant, sed non obligant is a famous Latin quote. It means something like the stars guide us, they don’t bind us. Certainly sounds cultish. Maybe she was involved in one. Someone might have wanted her dead to keep her quiet.” I stare at the screen, my imagination running wild with stories of how and why Lucy was murdered. “Maybe she knew something she shouldn’t. Someone should check her camera.”
I reach for my coffee and take another swig.
“We must start on your nails, madam,” a pretty, doe-eyed man to my right says.
I switch the coffee to my other hand, still focused on the screen, when the door swings in suddenly and Roman is there, staring down his nose at me. He looks regal in his tux, like Italian nobility. A modern Medici .
The redhead doing my makeup does a double take. Her lashes flutter.
“Excuse the interruption.” He casts me a tight smile. “The license is here. All we need is your signature, and then the American officiant will legalize everything immediately following the ceremony.” He places a form on the table in front of me and holds out a pen.
He’s already signed it.
Roman explained this to me before. We can’t legally be married in France since we aren’t citizens, so we’re having a simultaneous remote ceremony to make this one legal. “Oh, uh, they’re painting my nails. I’ll sign it when they’re dry.”
He frowns. “This is important. They will fix any damage to your manicure.” He clears his throat.
The nail tech stops painting and releases my hand. Everyone stops. Esther is still holding the steamer, but it’s nowhere near the dress. The man behind me stops working on my hair. Just like that, everyone is staring at the license and holding absolutely still.
What. The. Fuck.
I carefully raise the pen between my half-painted fingers. Roman smiles and gives me a little nod of encouragement. It’s intimidating as hell. I slide a teasing smile his way, pen hovering over the signature line. “Haven’t you ever heard that it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding?”
The corners of his mouth bend higher, but his dark eyes don’t twinkle with the smile. “Then it’s a good thing neither one of us believes in luck.”
“Right.” On our first date, Roman admitted that he liked my Alex Rogue character because she didn’t believe in luck or magic. Like Hercule Poirot, the character is governed by logic and deduction. I guess Roman believes I share that personality trait with Alex, but the truth is, she’s entirely fictional. As childish as it may be, I do think that luck and magic exist in this world, and I find myself sad that I’m marrying a man who doesn’t. “Are you nervous at all about today?”
He glances down at the license and sighs as if annoyed I haven’t signed it yet. “Of course not.”
I wait for him to ask me if I’m nervous, but he doesn’t. Just glances between me and the license while the room grows uncomfortably quiet again. Although he doesn’t actually say anything, the message is clear in the set of his shoulders, the way he hovers over me, the weight of expectation hanging in the air. Immediate compliance is expected. I get the distinct impression I’m the first person to make him wait for anything.
Why am I hesitating? Christ, I’m about to walk down the aisle and exchange rings with this man in front of a garden full of guests. Why should the legal documentation of what’s about to occur feel oppressive?
“Fiona?” He takes a step closer. “Is there a problem?”
I glance up at him. Yes, of course there’s a problem. I’m having an existential crisis around our upcoming nuptials . “No.” I chuckle. “I must need another coffee.”
I scroll a sloppy signature on the line and hand the form back to him.
He gives me a small nod of acknowledgment, then kisses me on the forehead. “There. Easy enough.” He winks. “Meet you at the altar. ”
He starts to leave, but then I remember something I’ve been meaning to ask him. “Has your father arrived? I thought maybe I could ask him to walk me down the aisle considering…” Considering I’m an orphan whose only family recently died in a terrible accident.
His expression softens. “What a wonderful idea. Unfortunately, his flight is delayed. I’m not sure he’ll make it by the start of the ceremony.”
“Oh! Maybe we should push back the wedding. You can’t get married without your family here.” Our small guest list is mostly his friends and relations, but I can’t imagine he’d want to move forward without his only living parent.
His smile falters, his jaw tensing. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. The officiant is on a tight schedule. Besides, my father has been married twice. He knows how this works.” He gives a dark laugh.
Roman slips out the door, and it’s like the entire staff breathes a sigh of relief. Everyone starts talking again.
Esther turns to me. “You must be a very strong woman to have landed such a man.”
I chuckle as the man beside me starts painting my nails again. “Yeah… Strong.”
Two hours later, I find myself standing in the outdoor gardens at the end of an aisle the staff has created between rows of white chairs. I cling to the handle of my bouquet to distract myself from the itch that runs the length of my body. I itch like a kid with chicken pox. My dress is some kind of scratchy couture, sewn together by the devil himself to torment my flesh like nothing else I’ve ever worn.
It’s a beautiful, sunny day with miles of blue sky. Blush-colored roses, freesia, and calla lilies cascade from pedestals at the end of each row of chairs, and more blooms line the altar. It’s too early for this garden to be in bloom, but you’d never know it from the topiaries and large planters surrounding me. I can’t even fathom how much it must have cost to ship all of these in and set them up here.
I wiggle, wondering if the heaviness in my stomach is nerves or dread. Maybe it’s a little of both. Every bride gets cold feet I suppose. Giving in, I scratch my neck. It doesn’t help. Out of habit, I feel for my crucifix, then remember that Esther removed it from my neck because it showed through the dress.
Swallowed in a monstrosity of lace and wearing shoes that pinch my feet, I try my best to stay in the moment, but my painfully tight bun is making my head pound. As beautiful as the flowers are, the scent is cloying, almost suffocating, and I breathe through my mouth to keep from getting sick. Or maybe it’s not the flowers or the hair or the dress. My stomach sinks again, a growing knot in my gut telling me this is wrong.
Vivian chooses that moment to appear beside me in a gorgeous lilac mermaid dress. Her eyes widen when she sees my face. She knows. She knows she was right yesterday. I am standing at the head of the aisle on what should be the happiest day of my life, thinking about running. Thinking about calling the whole damn thing off.
“Fiona?” she whispers. “Take a deep breath.”
I swallow hard. “I’m fine,” I say automatically.
“You don’t have to do this,” she whispers.
Roman takes his place beside the officiant. If I asked Vivian to, she’d get me out of here. I know she would. But then what?
How unfair would it be to leave Roman now? All the media outlets, every news station, would report how the billionaire groom was left at the altar. He doesn’t deserve that. From the moment we met in that bookstore, he’s done nothing but treat me with respect. I might not love him, but I definitely don’t want to hurt him.
“I’m fine,” I say through my teeth. “Just nervous.”
That seems to appease her. She nods and squares up to face the aisle.
I force my regrets and apprehension down, down, down until I can hardly hear the whisper of warning my gut is sending me. A string quartet nestled under a canopy of feathery greens begins to play a classic piece, Handel if I remember correctly from my meeting with the coordinator. Vivian strikes a plastic smile and walks to her spot, stepping up onto the dais across from Roman. The music changes, and it’s my turn.
Time seems to slow. Step. Step. Step. One foot in front of the other, I walk myself down the aisle. Until finally I reach my place facing Roman. Vivian fluffs my train, then takes the bouquet from my trembling hands.
The officiant starts talking about love and family, lives joined. My mind wanders. I am really doing this. What would Marion say if she were still alive? Silently I say a prayer. God, if you’re listening and I’m not supposed to do this, if I’m not meant to be with Roman, stop this wedding from happening. Send an earthquake or a storm. Anything. Send me a sign.
I pray it over and over again, my joints starting to ache from the anxiety welling within me.
I can’t look directly at Roman, not when I’m thinking these thoughts. I pick a floral arrangement over his shoulder to focus on. Looking at him without looking at him. That’s when I see something move along the side entrance to the garden, the aisle Roman took to the altar. I’m drawn to it, happy for the distraction. There’s an irregularity in the pattern of the flowers. An animal? I can’t make it out. I draw a deep breath through my nose. Whose cologne is that? It smells like salt air, cucumber, and mint. Soothing and clean. The thing shifts again. There’s nothing there, but there is. I can’t explain it. And I can’t tear my eyes away from it. I stare at the non-thing. Really stare.
And it blinks . It blinks!
Jesus fucking Christ, there is an alien predator at the end of the aisle, and its eyes are trained on me!