Chapter 6
AIDEN
“If you had to go through with this nasty business at all, it would have made more sense to go to the courthouse. Sign a few papers.” Mara reclines on a settee in the groom’s suite at the St. Louis Cathedral.
I’m ignoring her imperiously raised eyebrow and general air of incredulity.
“The pomp and circumstance seem pointless to me.”
“That’s because you’re a cold, hard bitch, love.
Not a romantic bone in your body. Let Aiden have his moments of whimsy,” Eamon yells from the adjoining bathroom, where he’s spent the past fifteen minutes obsessing over his hair.
I don’t know why he bothers. It’s looked like a messy rat’s nest for the past fifteen years, and it’ll continue for the next fifty.
For some reason, perfectly intelligent women find the veritable mop of dark curls irresistible (Mara excluded), and I’ve never understood the appeal.
Not when they’re on the head of someone clearly psychotic. And I say that lovingly.
For the most part.
I study them with no shortness of resignation as I nibble on a pastry provided by my assistant, Finn. “Call it whatever you like, but the bigger the spectacle, the less likely Cian is to turn it into a real-life red wedding.”
Eamon’s snort can be heard across the world. “What a party that would make, though.”
Mara quits studying her blood-red nails to shoot Eamon a look. “We have vastly different definitions about what makes a party.”
Rolling my eyes, I give my black suit a critical once-over.
In less than an hour, I’ll know if I pulled this off.
If I have, then seeing my mother for the first time in years is on my horizon.
There’ll be hell to pay, but it will be worth it if I can see her.
It has to be. If I haven’t… then death will be a welcome oblivion.
“Yes, yes, we all know what you lack in taste you make up in sheer audacity,” Eamon snipes.
As they bicker, I study myself in the mirror.
The lines of the suit are classic and expertly tailored.
Mara tried to convince me to wear a white button-down shirt, but I opted for black on black.
She rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath how I have no sense of taste or tradition, but I ignored her.
The last-minute tailoring cost a small fortune, but I don’t plan to be married twice, so I didn’t bat an eye.
Maybe a small part of me knows Catriona will see me in this suit and feel regret that she left without saying goodbye that night. Perhaps that same part of me is also looking forward to punishing her in this way one last time.
Brushing that thought away, I run a comb through my lightly gelled hair and adjust my cuff links.
Mara shoves to her feet and prowls restlessly. “Stop preening, you little shit. You look fine.”
“Maybe he’s a romantic at heart, darling. Wants to do the thing properly. You’re only saying that because the thought of your wedding is making you break out in hives.” Eamon presses a red rose from an arrangement on a chest of drawers to his nose and inhales indulgently.
Mara huffs out a breath but doesn’t deny it, and I hurry to interject before she takes offense and starts snarling. Mentions of her impending nuptials make her snappy. “Play nice, or I’ll tie you both up so I don’t have to deal with you.”
“Kinky,” Eamon says, moving across the room. “This calls for a celebratory shot. I’ll get the whiskey. No abstaining, or I’ll hold you down and pour it down your throat.”
“We’re in a church,” Mara says dryly, patently ignoring my threats.
That’s what I love about her. Nothing can faze her.
Not even my threats, which would cower anyone else.
Maybe that’s why the three of us have stuck together for so long.
We’re bloodthirsty, a little insane, and practically allergic to the spectrum of human emotion.
Eamon pulls a fifth of whiskey from God only knows where and retrieves three paper cups from a beverage area that has coffee and water dispensers. He fills the cups with a generous pour, then hands one to each of us before lifting his own.
“To Aiden and his blushing bride!”
Mara lifts her paper cup with a rueful smile at me, and I definitely don’t turn mine away. I’m hoping the burn will wash away all thoughts of failure. I’ve managed not to think about it much, but I know the moment I step out into that church, I’m going to need the diversion.
I end up downing two—or was it three?—more shots at Eamon’s insistence.
I tried to turn the last one away, but he tackled me and did indeed pour it down my throat.
After sputtering in indignation, I threw him out of the room so he could find his seat in the pews.
Mara slapped me on the cheek and sauntered after him to do the same.
I take my place at the front of the church with the priest to my right. He mops sweat from his brow with a white handkerchief as he studiously avoids my attention.
Rory glowers from the first pew, shoulders up to his ears because Mara and Eamon are sitting right behind him. This entire ordeal is certainly pissing him off, and it’s a sad state of affairs that his discomfort is the highlight of my wedding day.
The rest of the seats are filled with familiar faces, Rory’s colleagues, his family. A fair amount of press and employees from the Emerald. I ordered as many witnesses as possible, just in case Cian did show up, to deter him from making it a spectacle. The more eyes on us, the better.
A pianist begins playing “Wedding March,” and I experience a moment of hesitation when Catriona doesn’t show as a bridesmaid first. A slow, cold wave of emotion crashes throughout my insides.
Sweat dots my brow. I want to wipe it away, but my hands are locked at my sides.
It had been easy to agree to this farce at first. Easy to tell myself it wouldn’t matter who I married or who it hurt.
But the thought of not seeing her one last time makes my chest tight in a way I don’t want to examine too closely.
There’s no going back now. I’ve made my choice, and I have to live with it. Once this ceremony is done, either Cian will bend to pressure or he’ll retaliate. I can only hope his desire to maintain appearances will be stronger than his desire to punish my mother or me for going against him.
Elizabeth appears in the doorway. She’s draped in a simple, classic white wedding dress and heavy veil, her features somewhat obscured by the material. But she looks enough like Catriona that it makes my heart catch.
I release a breath in a slow, measured exhalation, as I tell myself to get a grip. This is a means to an end. With each step she takes toward me, I lock down my emotions, carefully tucking them behind a cold, businesslike exterior.
Until I feel nothing.
Blissfully numb.
The walk up the aisle seems to take an eternity. The priest seems to think so too, because he keeps shifting from foot to foot and heaving with more sighs than seems physically possible.
My mask hardens as Elizabeth draws near. Maybe I should have taken Eamon’s offer for more shots. But no amount of alcohol seems to be enough.
I take Elizabeth’s hand and turn to the priest, who has gone so pale, I’m worried he may simply pass away in front of us.
Father Michael sucks in a gasp before clinging to his Bible, eyes dropping to the words as he blinks rapidly through dripping sweat.
I force myself to relax one muscle at a time as he begins his introductions.
Christ, I can’t take in a word he’s saying. Not when I’m drowning in Catriona’s scent even though she’s nowhere to be seen. I’m dizzy with it, tempted to search out the source no matter who’s watching. I twitch violently with the effort of my restraint. The fucking woman is haunting me.
When the priest speaks, his voice trembles, echoing throughout the chamber.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God and this company to witness the sacred union of this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony. Marriage is a solemn and holy covenant, a reflection of the love Christ has for His church. It is not to be entered into lightly, but reverently, deliberately, and with the blessing of the Lord. Today, we celebrate the joining of two souls in a bond that is meant to endure not only in times of joy but also in hardship, bound by faith, fidelity, and love.”
Then the priest is motioning for me to remove Elizabeth’s veil. I snap back to myself and am grateful Elizabeth is standing with haughty defiance. Gripping the fabric, I pull it over her face and behind her head, determined to finish the ceremony as quickly as possible.
And that’s where my hands freeze, on either side of a face that’s been a recurring star in my dreams since the moment we met.
Because the woman standing in front of me isn’t Elizabeth, as promised.
The woman standing in front of me, ready for me to say vows to her, is her sister, Catriona.
She’s not supposed to be here.
This wasn’t in my carefully laid plans.
This is going to ruin everything.
Fear strikes through me, spearing into parts I thought long dead.
Catriona lifts her face to me, a devious, satisfied smile tugging at her lips.
“Hello, future husband,” she says.