Chapter 20 Logan
“What the fuck are you playing at?” I ask Pearl. I’d been standing outside the room, watching her smile beside Jo and the other bridesmaids, getting their pictures done, looking picturesque and perfect. The groomsmen weren’t needed until after the ceremony, a brief photoshoot before the reception.
Pearl had framed it as a numbers thing when she brought it up—her dad needed one more groomsman to balance out the bridesmaids. I wouldn’t have to do much, she’d said. Just the photos at the end.
Pearl was so accommodating. She always is, with me.
Just not, apparently, with her sister.
“What are you talking about?” she asks, shocked. I nod toward the hall, and she follows me.
“Rose’s bridesmaid dress. It doesn’t fit.”
Pearl rolls her eyes. “Well, she’s definitely put on a few since the last time I saw her.”
Defensive not only of Rose but of her perfect fucking curves, I snap, “It wasn’t even close to fitting. You did that on purpose.”
Something moves across her face—subtle at first, a small wobble of her lip, her chin tilting up just slightly.
I know this look. In the past, I’d have pulled her in already, asked what was wrong.
This time, I do not.
Her shoulders drop. “Apparently, all it took was a few days for my dear sister to turn you against me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She always does this.” Pearl’s voice drops, goes quiet and cold.
“She did it with Dad when we were younger. Now you.” She laughs once, a short, ugly sound.
“Rosaria. So special, smart, and independent, so sweet and different from everyone else—and everyone just falls for her. Every time.” She looks at me, and for a moment something dark passes through her expression before she closes it off. “I didn’t think she’d get to you, too.”
“Pearl, what are you talking about?”
“Did you fuck her?”
I scrub my hand down my face. “Jesus Christ. What is your deal with your sister?”
“I am not the bad guy here. I’m sorry her dress doesn’t fit. But she didn’t even bother to try it on, that’s not exactly on me.”
Like Rose said, and it isn’t exactly untrue.
The bridal party moves past us, Harlow slowing, eyeing us both. “Ceremony’s about to start.”
Pearl’s face opens into a wide smile. “Excellent. Shall we?”
Harlow nods, watching me before turning and following Pearl. We make our way to a small back room outside the atrium—emerald green dresses, Jo in her off-white flowing gown, Roger at her side. They’d decided to walk down the aisle together, bucking against tradition, despite the full wedding party.
Pearl lines everyone up. Then a flash of red catches my eye, and I turn. Nearly swallow my tongue.
Her hair falls past her shoulders in loose waves, brows and lashes dark against chestnut eyes, lips painted the same red as her dress, making my dick twitch.
The open neckline dips low, drawing my eyes down to her generous cleavage.
My mouth waters as I trail the way her dress clings to every curve, a slit running up one thigh. Unreal.
“What are you wearing?” Pearl hisses.
At first, Rose seemed to walk in slow motion. Confident, strong, chin up. Now, her shoulders drop an inch.
Jo steps forward, brows turned up. “Sweetie, where’s your bridesmaid dress?”
“It didn’t fit,” Rose says, and I can hear the effort it takes to say it plainly, without apology.
I can see the self-consciousness pick away at her, and I want to sweep her up into my arms. I want to tell her she’s perfect.
That I want to titty fuck her, hold those curves like handles while I slam into her from behind.
But I can’t say that to her in front of her future stepmother.
“You can’t walk down the aisle in that. Go find a seat in the back.” Pearl’s voice has gone flat and clipped. “I’ll deal with you after.”
It’s a different tone than I’ve heard from her before. I’ve watched Pearl cry, deflect, go quiet and wounded. I’ve seen her perform her hurt like it was a second language. But this—dismissive, rude, snarky—is something else.
This isn’t Pearl losing her patience. This is Pearl dropping the act.
This is the Pearl Rose has always known.
Pearl turns to Jo, who has already opened her mouth to object. “That red is going to pull every eye in the room. It’s your wedding, Jo. Do you really want everyone staring at her?”
Rose takes the bait. She chews the inside of her cheek, eyes going bright, like she’s trying to hold her emotions in check. “Jo, she’s right. I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Don’t worry about me—I’ll grab a seat. It’s okay. This is your day.”
“Honey, you are not taking a single thing from me. I don’t care that your dress is red.”
But Rose is already shrinking with discomfort, and Jo can see it. Pearl is right, too. Every eye in that room will be on Rose. Just not for the reason Pearl is implying.
“Okay, honey. What terrible luck about that bridesmaid dress. But I understand—you don’t want to be a distraction up there. But I absolutely insist you’re in the pictures. You could show up with blue hair, and I’d still want you beside me. Okay?”
Rose sniffs and they hug. Over Jo’s shoulder, she catches my eye and gives me a small, reassuring smile. She knows I’m seething. Then she slips out of the room.
I’m too pissed to say anything, and it’s not the time or the place.
Pearl arranges everyone—bridesmaids on one side, groomsmen on the other, Jo and Roger at the back, to walk in last. The music begins. Pearl steps in beside me, and something nags at me. I glance back down the line, then count forward.
“Pearl,” I say through gritted teeth. “Shouldn’t there be an extra groom?”
She frowns, looking up at me. And then understanding dawns. She doesn’t look ashamed. She looks like she’s been caught.
“If Rose was always meant to be a bridesmaid,” I continue, “then someone was supposed to walk her down the aisle. So, where is her groom?”
The doors open. The music rises. She takes my arm at the elbow, fingers curling in. If it weren’t for Jo and Roger, I’d already be done with her.
Pearl’s fingers cling to my arm until we reach the altar, where I have to remove them to part ways. When Jo and Roger arrive and the ceremony begins, I do my best to stay present.
I find Rose in the back. She got there too late for a front seat, and I already know she wouldn’t have asked anyone to move. That’s just not who she is.
In the back, alone, at her father’s wedding, while her sister stands proudly at the front.
It’s so fucked up.
The ceremony is quick, which I’m grateful for.
They aren’t religious, wrote their own vows, kept it short and sweet.
By the end, some of my anger has burned off, but I can see the hurt on Rose’s face she’s trying desperately to hide.
When the party files out after Jo and Roger, I reach the end of the aisle, let Pearl’s hand fall, and reach across the row of chairs toward Rose.
She gives me a bright, small, awkward smile, excuses herself past the couple beside her, and takes my hand. We walk out together, and I pull her in close.
I want her to know I see her. That she’s loved.
Fuck.
But it’s true.
It’s not just these few days. It’s been culminating. From an out-of-control crush over the years to this.
I’m crazy about her.
Rose relaxes against my side, and at Jo’s insistence, she ends up in the wedding photos after all. Roger, Rose, and Jo alone first, then the full group. Rose’s smile is real, whereas Pearl looks like she’s swallowed a stone, shooting me glances which I ignore.
When it’s over, I find Rose’s hand and don’t let go. We move away from the atrium and down the hall without a word, past clusters of guests, and I keep her close at my side, my jaw tight, my thumb moving slowly against her knuckles.
“Are you okay?” I ask, not looking at her.
“Yeah.” She means it, which somehow makes it worse. I think about asking whether she noticed there was no groomsman assigned to her, that Pearl never intended for her to stand up there at all. But I let it go. I’m already pissed enough for both of us—at Pearl, and at Roger.
The reception space has been completely turned over since this morning.
Some tables were cleared to open up the floor, a full string quartet here despite the weather, the entire room drowning in flowers and trailing vines.
Candles line the walls, thick ones pooled deep with wax, like they’ve been burning for decades.
It’s a lot. It’s beautiful.
I don’t give a fuck what the table place settings say, I keep Rose at my side, but she seems content to stand near the bar while we wait for my friends. Pearl is too busy playing hostess to bother us.
The food comes out the same as last night, table service, but the energy is looser.
People are on their feet, moving between tables, finding each other.
Jo and Roger are already on the dance floor, and I keep half an ear out for any announcement of a father-daughter dance.
Fortunately, it never comes. I don’t know what I would have done if Roger had walked Pearl out there and left Rose sitting alone in the back of the room again.
Sunshine has taken a liking to Rose. They’ve been talking for the better part of an hour, heads tilted toward each other, and I catch pieces of it—something about ashwagandha, about growing lemon balm in partial light, east-facing if possible.
Sunshine talks about a tincture she swears cured her insomnia.
Rose lights up. She’s rattling off about adaptogens, and when Sunshine finds out she’s a nutritionist, the questions don’t stop.
Rose answers every one of them without hesitation.
Confident, specific, completely in her element.
I watch her beam, hands moving as she talks, completely lit up, and something in my chest caves in. The shame is slow at first, then violently pricking away at me the happier she seems, leaving cold shards around my heart.