13. Allie #2
He says it so matter-of-factly, like it’s just another calendar reminder. Trash day, oil change, marry the woman I’ve barely spoken to.
I squint at him. “Wow. I’m honestly surprised you knew.”
I push past him toward the elevator. I’d be thrilled to know anything about where we’ll live after tomorrow, but that would require my fiancé to communicate, and I’m guessing his words-per-day quota maxes out at ten.
He falls into step beside me, all tall, silent, and broody—which is apparently his brand—and that’s when it hits me.
The scent.
Woodsy. Citrus. A little sinful.
He smells like a forest took a shower in luxury cologne, and it’s completely unfair. I glance sideways, instantly irritated that he’s both infuriating and smells like temptation bottled.
Seriously?
Out of all the things he could be good at—like, I don’t know, talking to his future wife—he nailed “smelling like sex and secrets.” Meanwhile, I’m over here mentally sending hate mail to Marco Bennetti for marrying me off to a man who won’t make eye contact, barely speaks, and still somehow smells like the beginning of toe-curling mistakes.
“Could this elevator be any slower?” I groan, practically vibrating with frustration. If there was ever a time for an elevator to drop a few floors faster than usual, it’s now.
Why is he here? No, really—why? I spent the last two weeks begging the universe, praying to whatever wedding gods exist, and throwing pennies into fountains, hoping he’d acknowledge me. And now that he has?
I hate it.
Rage bubbles up inside me because I finally realized how pathetic I’ve been. Twenty days of waiting. Twenty days of checking my phone. Twenty days of hoping my fiancé—the man I’m legally binding myself to tomorrow—would remember I exist.
What does that say about my future?
Nothing good, that’s for damn sure.
“Why are you here?”
“Rehearsal.” Truly, a robo caller’s voice would be warmer than his right now.
“I know we have a rehearsal. But you haven’t shown up for anything before this, so let’s try again. Why are you here? Here, at my apartment. Here, talking to me. Hell, why are you even going to the rehearsal? Do you even know what time we’re getting married?”
The elevator dings, and I launch myself inside, slamming the button for the lobby—only for his arm to move past mine, hitting it before I can.
That’s when it happens. His arm barely brushes against mine, and the man jerks away like I’m some radioactive mutant he accidentally touched and now needs to schedule an emergency decontamination.
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. Nope. We are not doing this. I will not cry over a man who gives me the warmth of an Excel spreadsheet.
I press my lips together, willing myself to swallow down the lump in my throat. I can’t do this. I can’t.
He doesn’t talk to me. He doesn’t look at me. And now, apparently, the thought of touching me is too much for him.
Maybe I am that hideous. Maybe I’ve been lying to myself my entire life.
At least back in the mafia, I was wanted. Sure, not for good reasons, but you don’t realize how much weight you put behind people wanting you—until no one does.
It hurts.
Like a slow, festering wound that won’t heal.
“I can’t do this.” The words tumble out, barely above a whisper, but they feel final. Like a decision I should have made weeks ago.
Beside me, Rico freezes. Which is impressive, because I already thought his default state was a motionless statue. But now? He’s really not moving.
I see him turn his head slightly in my peripheral vision, but I keep my eyes locked on the floor numbers, willing this elevator to hurry the hell up. Ten more to go.
“Vinnie’s waiting for me downstairs,” I continue, my voice steadier than I feel. “He’ll take me to the rehearsal. There’s no need for you to go.”
Because why would he? What’s the point? We could just sign the damn marriage certificate and call it a day. I could stand up there alone, in my dream dress, and at least that would be less humiliating than standing across from a man who refuses to see me.
He probably won’t even grab my hand during the vows. Definitely won’t kiss me.
And that’s just the wedding.
A nice little preview of what my actual life will look like: empty, silent, alone.
“It’s my wedding too,” Rico says, almost offended. As if this jerk cares.
That asshole.
I whirl on him, not even caring that the first tear has finally broken free, sliding down my cheek. Screw it. Let him see what it looks like when you treat someone like a damn ghost.
“Why now?” My voice cracks, but I push through.
“You haven’t given a single shit about this wedding.
Your cousin had to stand in for you at the last rehearsal, and honestly?
He was more appealing to be around than you.
At least he smiled—even if it was a pity smile.
Do you know how embarrassing it is to have my fiancé ignore my texts?
To not even know where I’m about to live? ”
I wipe at my cheek, frustration morphing into something raw. Something I don’t want him to see, but here we are.
“You avoid me. You flinch when you touch me. Do I really disgust you that much?”
Silence.
Just… silence.
I shake my head. “Yeah, fine. Don’t answer. Don’t bother coming tonight either. There’s no point in you standing there looking at me like you regret everything. I can do that all by myself.”