7. Theá
Chapter seven
Theá
“M iss Theá, it’s almost time. We have to put the veil on,” Jacques says as he jogs over with the lace veil.
I stare at the two of us in the mirror as he slips it into my hair. “Your mother would be so proud of you,” he says absent-mindedly.
Jacques has worked for my family for years, arriving just before my mother passed away. They were two peas in a pod, and surprisingly, the only reason my father condoned the friendship was because Jacques is gay. Fine for the staff, but not okay when it’s his son.
“Would she? Or are you just saying that because it’s what people say in these moments?” I scoff, observing the man behind me, who gazes at me with soft, sad eyes.
It feels as if I’m watching a scene from a movie, except it’s missing a major character: my mom.
I always imagined my mother rushing around on my wedding day, making sure everything ran perfectly, but much like her death—my wedding day came a lot sooner than anyone could have predicted.
The entire morning and most of last night has been filled with the usual festivities, minus the festive spirit. It was more Eleanor forcing me to deal with all the tasks I’d been putting off, like getting a dress and shoes, deciding on my flowers, and even some maintenance. I’m practically a hairless cat as I stand here since she insisted I wax every inch of my body because, and I quote, “You never know what might happen.”
I do know what might happen, and I’m in denial about it. Kylian was surprisingly quick to run and tell me exactly what went down in the meeting with the Vitales, including Antonio’s little threat of consummating our marriage as soon as the wedding was over. Down to the cliché taunt of providing bloody sheets.
Now, do I think my father and brother probably provoked him to the point of saying that? Yes.
Does it still make a chill run down my spine at the thought? Also yes.
Antonio has never made me feel uncomfortable on the few occasions I’ve been in his presence, but I’m also aware that I do not know this man at all, and he is capable of a lot more than I’m aware of.
“Here, let me help,” Noelle offers as she steps up to help Jacques, who seems to be struggling with the veil.
“You look beautiful,” she says softly as she easily clips the veil in. She slowly brings it over my face, another tradition my mother should’ve been here for.
“You look beautiful,” I turn and tell her.
She’s wearing a soft yellow bridesmaid dress along with Eleanor, who took on the role of maid of honour in a heartbeat when I realised I hadn’t even thought to ask anyone.
“The dress is perfect. Just like you always wanted.” Her eyes twinkle with a tinge of sadness as she looks at me.
She’s right. The second Eleanor realised I didn’t have a dress, she pulled up my Pinterest board and started scrolling through all the options to make sure at least one part of today would be perfect. It’s a floor-length white gown with a corset bodice, thigh-high slit, and off-the-shoulder draped sleeve. Underneath, longer sleeves made entirely of lace peek out, as well as an underskirt of lace that shows through the slit. It perfectly combines both modesty and an air of sexiness, which is exactly what I wanted for the ceremony.
“Come on, don’t cry. I’m getting married, not dying.” I pull her into a hug. The moment does feel rather bittersweet. This is the exact dress I’ve always dreamed of, at the exact venue I’ve always wanted in Saint-Tropez, with a man who’s rich and good-looking.
But the bitterness of the day and the reality of why I’m doing this claws at the back of my throat, ready to pull me under whenever I try to forget. This is a business deal. I am simply playing the role of a pawn in my father’s grand plan.
“What if I’m next?” Noelle’s greatest weakness is her overthinking nature; it's something we both do, but hers has become significantly worse since our mom died.
“Shhh, don’t worry about that now. Focus on going back to Paris to study.”
“Am I going to see you after today?” Her eyes well up. I’ve seen this look before; it’s the way she looked at me when I had to break the news about our mom.
“Of course, even if I have to come to Paris to see you, I promise.”
“Theresa, it’s time.” My father’s voice slices through the tender moment.
I nod and usher Noelle towards the door. “Go, you have to head in before I do.”
“You look beautiful, Theresa,” he coos from his spot in the doorway, where he leans against the door frame in an all-white suit. Usually, a bride has to worry about guests—mainly females—wearing white to their wedding. I’m sure none of them ever had to worry about their father doing it.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t pretend this is real,” I blurt out.
“This is real.”
“Yes, the situation is real, but don’t pretend that this moment is real. This isn’t some sweet moment before you give me away to get married to the love of my life. You’re throwing me in the deep end and just hoping I can swim.”
“I would never do that, Theresa. I’ll be here every step of the way.”
“Until you get what you want from him, and then? What happens then, Dad? You sell me out just like you did to Mom?”
He flinches at the mention of her, but regains his composure just as quickly as he loses it. “Very well then. Let’s go.”
The Chateau de la Messardière is everything I could have ever dreamt of and more. The large courtyard is brought to life with fairy lights and the low-hanging sunlight that puts the views of the French Riviera on full display. The weather is warm, but not too hot since it’s later in the afternoon. Everything has come together perfectly to make this scene appear like one out of a storybook.
Everything is going great. I haven’t felt an ounce of nerves until right now as I stand at the back of the aisle leading to the altar.
I hook my arm into my father’s. “Make it believable, Theresa, we have an audience.”
I don’t have to ask what he means as my eyes gaze over the enormous crowd that has gathered to watch this wedding. Every single one of their heads turns to face me as the bridal chorus starts playing. I’m sure whoever was in charge of invites had a pissing contest with the Vitales to see who could invite more people, because I’m sure the royal wedding had about the same amount of people.
The walk down the aisle is antagonising, but as I look to the front, I nearly freeze in my spot. Antonio looks perfect, and I’m sure under very different circumstances, I would’ve sprinted down the aisle towards him, but he looks like everything I’ll never have.
His hair is slicked back, keeping his curls tamed and out of his face, aside from one stray curl that manages to slip onto his forehead. His light green eyes bore into mine as he watches me like a hunter watching its prey, except with what looks like a bit of disgust. He pulls his eyes from me and looks down at the floor.
Great. Even my soon-to-be husband thinks I’m disgusting.
As we arrive at the front, I assume my father is going to remove the veil, as most fathers do with this tradition, but when he doesn’t and just kisses my cheek through the veil, I furrow my brows.
He turns to Antonio and whispers, “You can take it off; it symbolises that she’s officially yours.”
My heart thumps against my ribcage at his words, and even Antonio seems taken aback by his words. He simply nods before shaking my father’s hand.
I feel like I have a million eyes on me as I turn to hand Eleanor my flowers, who gives me her usual bright smile.
It’s a brief warmth that immediately turns to ice when I turn and look up at Antonio. His face is a void of emotion, completely apathetic. If I thought it was difficult to read him before, right now it seems impossible.
The service begins and ends smoothly and quickly. Very generic, no self-written vows, just the usual in sickness and in health followed by I do .
But now it’s the moment everyone looks forward to. Everyone except me.
The kiss.
Sure, Antonio isn’t bad-looking, but I can’t help but have a sickly feeling at just how forced this entire thing is.
“You may now kiss the bride,” the priest says, and the room falls silent in anticipation.
Antonio’s fingertips brush against my arm as he grabs the edges of the veil and lifts it over my head, revealing my face. His eyes search mine, probably looking for a way out, but I don’t give him one. He and I both know this has to happen. What kind of married couple doesn’t kiss at their own wedding?
His hand comes up to rest on my jaw as he takes a step closer. His skin on mine sears like hot iron, and my ability to breathe leaves as he gets even closer.
“Breathe, Theá,” he whispers, and as if possessed by his command, I do as I’m told.
The air is barely out of my lungs before his lips are on mine.
It’s awkward for a split second until I realise I have to kiss him back for this to be believable, and God, does it make me weak in my knees when I do.
His mouth moulds to mine perfectly, and I can’t help myself from moving closer to him. My hands go to grab the front of his shirt as his other hand grabs hold of my waist.
Cheers and wolf whistles erupt from the crowd, and that’s when Antonio pulls back. An uncontrollable whine leaves my throat when he does, and I chase after his lips briefly before reality comes flying back in. I’m not in love with this man. This is all pretend. It’s business. I have to stay focused.
Focus flies out the window when he caresses my cheek, flashes me a bright smile, and then thanks me for the kiss—he fucking thanks me—before grabbing my hand and turning to the crowd, raising it into the air and smiling like a man who just got to marry the love of his life.
The entire crowd erupts into cheers aside from the front two rows filled with everyone who knows the truth. Well, everyone except Mattia, who is surprisingly Antonio’s best man. He cheers along with the crowd as if he doesn’t know the truth, or he’s just happy to finally see his cousin kiss a girl.
Antonio’s kissing abilities are far from average. They’re perfect.
There aren’t many times where I’ll admit I’m wrong, but right now, I have to admit that Antonio just might be as perfect as he says he is.