Chapter 2 #2
The room is so quiet I can hear the soft clink of silverware, someone's nervous cough. From the head table, his brother, London, and Laney stare blankly. They are both very aware of my predicament and how marriage is the only solution to my dilemma, but I don’t think either one of them actually thought this would happen, let alone like this, on their night.
Then Trigger gives London a look. It's subtle, barely there, but I catch it.
A slight tilt of his head, a raise of his eyebrows. I'm doing this. Are you with me?
He glances at Laney, who's watching with wide eyes and a hand pressed to her mouth. Then, he looks back to Trigger, and the corner of his mouth lifts, just barely, but I suppose it's permission all the same.
Trigger's hand tightens around mine, and suddenly we're moving again.
He leads me through the parting crowd, and whispers follow as we pass.
The wall of windows looms ahead, floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking Hale Ranch.
Officiant Reynolds stands there waiting with a kind smile and a small black book already in his hands.
"So without further ado," Trigger announces, his voice carrying across the room as we reach the windows, "welcome to part two of the evening. The part where I take Asha Fairfield as my wife."
The sound of glass slamming against wood cracks through the room like a gunshot. Every head whips toward the source.
My father.
He's standing at his table near the back, his highball glass slammed down so hard I'm surprised it didn't shatter.
His face is a storm, dark eyes blazing with fury.
He didn't just hear an announcement. He heard a declaration of war.
Trigger didn't ask him, didn't come to him for permission, didn't request my hand, as tradition demands.
And this isn't a traditional Indian wedding…
no mehendi, no sangeet, no seven pheras around the sacred fire.
But worse than all of that is the look in his eyes when they lock on mine. He knows.
My father has built an empire on reading people, on spotting a con from a mile away. And right now, standing there in his tailored suit, with his reputation on the line, he knows exactly what this is. A lie.
He takes a step forward. Then another. The crowd parts for him as my father storms across the reception hall, his gaze never leaving mine.
Panic starts to claw up my throat. This is it.
He's going to call us out. He's going to expose this whole charade before it even begins, and then everything I've been working toward will fall apart.
Unless…I step up. It's my turn to be convincing. My turn to sell this lie so thoroughly that even my father, the man who taught me how to spot deception, believes it.
I pull my hand from Trigger’s and move to meet my father halfway, closing the space between us before he can reach the windows, before he can make a scene in front of the officiant, in front of everyone.
"Dad—"
"Don't." His voice is low, deadly quiet. The kind of quiet that's more terrifying than yelling. "Don't you dare."
We're standing in the middle of the reception hall now, surrounded by guests pretending not to watch while hanging on every word. I can feel their eyes on us, can hear the whispers starting.
"I know what you're thinking," I start.
"Do you?" He takes another step closer, and I have to fight the urge to retreat. "Do you have any idea what you're doing? What this looks like?"
"It looks like I'm in love." The words come out steadier than I feel.
He laughs without humor. "Love. You expect me to believe that? That you're suddenly marrying him, tonight, without so much as a conversation with your father?"
He's right. In any real scenario, I would have told him, would have brought Trigger to dinner, would have let my father interrogate him over masala chai while pretending to be casual about it.
But the truth is, there's nothing normal about my father’s and my relationship.
Not anymore. We haven't been normal for years.
My father has secrets too, and I'm determined to uncover every one of them.
"I'm telling you now." I lift my chin, meeting his gaze head on. "I'm in love with him, Dad. I have been for years."
"Years?" His eyes narrow. "Years, and you never mentioned it? I'm supposed to believe that?"
"You weren't supposed to believe anything, because I wasn't ready to tell you.
" My voice rises slightly, emotion and memories that have the ability to break me flooding in because some of this is true.
The fear of disappointing him, the weight of his expectations, and the night I almost lost him to this senseless hate for a boy with the wrong name.
"I knew what you'd say. What you'd think.
That he wasn't good enough, that this wasn't the plan…
" I trail off as the image resurfaces: a paramedic handing me my father's things while I sat in the waiting room, praying for the doctors in the other room trying to bring him back to me.
A cracked phone screen couldn't hide what caused him to go off the road.
He claims he wasn't distracted, but I know differently.
If I want him to believe me now, it's time to show him one of my hands.
"But my plan never looked like yours; a cracked screen wasn't enough to change it. "
He stares at me, and I can see the pieces clicking together. Now he knows. My father's face hardens, and I watch as it shifts from anger, to hurt, and finally to the face he reserves for business—the one he's never once given me.
"Then you know exactly what you're doing choosing him, and nothing I say will change your mind?"
"Nothing," I confirm, schooling my face to ensure it tells no lies.
His hand runs over the dark, neatly kempt beard that peppers his strong jaw.
He's still suspicious, but there's something else there too.
Something I can't place. I know he's not entirely convinced, but it isn't until I feel Trigger's hand wrap around mine, his thumb gently brushing over the backs of my knuckles, and my father's gaze shifts, that I realize what’s happening.
My father may not be entirely convinced, but he's willing to let this go, to let this play out, at least for now, because this isn't over.
Not for him. He's not staring at me. He's staring through me, plotting his next move.
My father's gaze drops to our joined hands then lifts to Trigger.
The air crackles with an unspoken threat as the two men stare each other down. Trigger doesn't back down. He steps forward, bringing me with him, closing the distance until we're standing directly in front of my father.
"I'm going to marry your daughter now," Trigger says, without question but rather absolute certainty. "You can stand here and watch, or you can walk away. Either way, it's happening."
The boldness of his words steals my breath.
My father doesn't respond, doesn't so much as blink.
He's not threatened. Not even slightly. Trigger's words are washing over him like rain off glass, meaningless, because my father isn't really listening.
His expression hasn't changed. His posture hasn't shifted, and I know that look.
I've seen it before, in boardrooms and negotiations, right before he dismantles someone's entire world with a signature and a phone call.
He's calculating. Not his response. Not his next words. His revenge.
My father is the kind of man who doesn't react in the moment.
He plans. He strategizes. He waits. And right now, behind those dark eyes, I can practically see the gears turning.
Every angle is being considered. Every pressure point is being identified.
Every way to make Trigger regret this moment is being carefully, methodically mapped out.
Trigger doesn't wait for him to give a response.
Instead, he turns and leads me back toward the windows where Officiant Reynolds stands waiting, that patient smile still in place.
As we walk, the whispers start up again, a mix of shock and excitement over the star-crossed lovers who couldn't wait, who threw caution to the wind, and chose love over tradition.
We reach the windows and take our positions in front of the glass. Trigger faces me, his hands taking both of mine now, and for a moment, just a moment, the lie feels almost real.
Officiant Reynolds clears his throat. "Well, then," he says, a hint of amusement in his voice, "shall we begin?"
I nod, but my throat feels too tight to speak.
"Dearly beloved," Reynolds starts, and there's a slight twinkle in his eye as he surveys the confused crowd. "We are gathered here tonight—somewhat unexpectedly, I might add…"
A ripple of nervous laughter moves through the reception.
"To witness the union of Trigger Hale and Asha Fairfield.
Now, I've performed many weddings in my time, but I must say, this is the first where the guests thought they were just here for cake, dancing, and one wedding.
" More laughter, louder this time. Even I feel my lips twitch.
Panic be damned. Reynolds looks between Trigger and me with that knowing smile.
"But as I always say, when you know, you know.
And these two clearly couldn't wait another moment. "
This is insane. This is actually insane.
He's watching me with those penetrating eyes, and in the soft glow from the chandeliers, he's devastating. The sharp line of his jaw. The way his dress shirt fits across his shoulders. That slight curl to his hair that he probably spent twenty minutes trying to tame. And his mouth…God, his mouth.
Stop it. Focus.
"Not to be entered into lightly, but reverently and soberly…" The words Reynolds is speaking briefly register, only to fade again as Trigger traces slow circles on the back of my hand. "Do you, Trigger Hale, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"