Just Another Summer Escape (Coconut Beach #3)

Chapter 1

Silvie

I don’t want to be here. In fact, I want to run far, far away from this wedding venue right now.

Anywhere but here.

But isn’t a runaway bride a cliché? And what would people say?

Ugh.

My stomach clenches painfully at that thought and sweat beads over my upper lip, no doubt threatening to ruin my makeup.

Another thing to worry about, as if I’m not already unraveling thread by thread.

You can do this, Silvie.

Can I, though?

I have to.

There are over six hundred people expecting me to walk down the aisle in less than an hour. Not to mention the paparazzi parked outside waiting for juicy gossip to report on. And I’m pretty sure my parents would lose their ever-loving minds if I ran out on my own wedding.

Be brave, Silvie.

Do other brides-to-be feel this gut-churning, headache-inducing anxiety that makes you want to run away before it’s too late?

Just hang in there, girl.

But I don’t want to hang in there. I don’t even want to be here. I’d rather suffer maddening thirst in a desert, or battle mosquitoes in a swamp...any other form of torture elsewhere is preferable than this one.

Now you’re just being ridiculous.

This is supposed to be the happiest day of my life but I’m a thousand miles from happy. I can’t explain it, but this feels...wrong. I’ve never felt so much dread as I do right now.

Breathe. It has to be nervous jitters.

Or maybe it’s my gut telling me something important…

My heart rate skitters at that thought—at the idea that I might be making a huge mistake. Maybe it’s one of those survival instincts telling me if I stay, I’ll die.

Not to be dramatic or anything, but I kind of feel like I may not make it to the other side of this wedding alive.

I fidget uncomfortably. My dress is heavier than I remember from the fitting. Not physically, but emotionally. It digs into my ribs like it’s trying to suffocate me. Like it was designed by someone who doesn’t believe in bread or carbs in general and wants to torture me.

That’s because it pretty much was.

My mother sent a nutritionist and a chef to me six months ago. If I were to fit into my dress, I had to follow a strict diet. Utter bullshit.

Luckily, I was so busy with work and wedding planning that I had no time to dwell on the fact my almond mom had a less-than-healthy eating plan for me. I simply ate what was provided and kept busy on everything that needed doing.

Perhaps that should have been a red flag.

My stomach grumbles as if to agree.

God, I miss bread. I miss all carbs, actually. I literally dreamed about my cake today. The cake. Not the marriage. That should have been a sign, too.

I’m dragged from my internal meltdown, drawn to the humming of the wedding day chaos all around me. Curling irons clack together and makeup artists work on the wedding party for last-minute touch-ups. The lethal level of hairspray in the air makes it smell like chemical warfare.

Maybe I’ll inhale too many fumes and go out quickly.

Why is that morbid thought so relieving?

My mother’s voice floats in from the hallway, brisk and controlled as always. “Where is Belladonna? She’s supposed to be helping her sister get ready. It’s almost time.”

At the mention of Belladonna’s name, I grit my teeth so hard, I’m sure I crack a molar. I haven’t seen my sister, and I actually don’t care to. She and I have never been close, and the fact that my mom thinks that she might actually show up and help me is comical.

Belladonna hasn’t helped anyone but herself her entire life. Why start now?

Of course, she’s late. Again. She’s made it clear in the past few months that she wants nothing to do with my wedding day.

As much as I want to deny that it doesn’t sting, it’d be a lie.

There’s a tiny part of me who remembers when she was born.

I had all these visions of what having a built-in-best friend would be like.

Turns out, we couldn’t be more opposite, and those idealistic views I had quickly vanished as she got older.

One of the makeup artists says something, but I realize she isn’t even talking to me. This whole wedding is for me, yet I feel like I’m invisible. It’s happening all around me and I’m being sucked into a black hole of flowers and tulle and eager wedding guests against my will.

And what does Tyler think?

The very thought of my husband-to-be has my stomach clenching again. Another red flag? Or maybe it’s just starvation from the stupid diet.

My mother once again mentions my sister as if the entire event relies on her presence. Still absent. Shocker. I’m certainly not holding my breath.

Belladonna is just a year younger than me, and my only sibling, but we couldn’t be any more different.

I’m a career-driven woman, and she’s a socialite.

Even at twenty-eight, she still hasn’t grown up, loves to party, and stirs up drama wherever she goes.

The tabloids love to see her coming. Not my cup of tea.

I’m more comfortable in boardrooms than shopping.

I can’t remember the last time I let myself relax and do something for fun.

I’ve been so focused on building up our family’s company and taking over before I’m thirty.

That was the plan. My grandmother’s will stated that I will take over the family empire at thirty as long as I’m married.

I’m following the plan to save the company.

Married before turning thirty in three months.

Hence, my wedding day. Likely, had I not had this crazy will guiding my life, I may not have chosen to get married so soon.

We could have had a longer engagement, and I would have felt better about things.

Might not have felt like running away on my wedding day.

One of the makeup artists bumps into my chair, laughs shrilly, and then manhandles me around until I’m facing the mirror. It was much easier to avoid the inevitable when I didn’t literally have to face it.

I suck in a sharp breath through my nose and then wince when I’m restricted from filling my lungs with precious air.

Who is this magazine-cover beautiful bride? I certainly don’t recognize the woman staring back at me. Her eyes are hollow and her frown seems permanent. She blinks her heavily painted lashes, and still, there’s no recognition. The sharp collarbones don’t belong to my bread-loving soul.

Am I disassociating from myself or is this the new me?

Hysteria claws its way up my throat. I’m practically sewn into the loveliest dress I’ve ever set eyes on, and I want nothing more than to pluck at the seams, freeing myself from its prison-like hold.

Is this what marriage to Tyler will feel like?

Captivity. Loss of freedom. Despair.

And why don’t I feel guilty for these rampant, horrible thoughts?

I absently pluck at the custom imported lace, the urge to ruin it overwhelming. I’m wrapped in thousands of dollars of luxury fabric molded to fit a version of me that exists only in other people’s heads.

My heart is racing so fast at this point, I’m starting to feel dizzy. More sweat beads on my body and I wonder if my mother will come at me with more spray deodorant to pollute the air with.

“There she is,” someone says, pleasure in their voice. I’m pretty sure the voice belongs to my mother.

Belladonna sweeps into the room as if it’s her day, not mine.

Her cheeks are flushed, and her dark hair is perfectly blown out.

Her lips are swollen and lipstick-free as if she’s put them to use before stepping in here.

If I were to guess, she was probably making out with one of the groomsmen.

Scotty? He’s single and has always had a thing for her.

I’m eager to look at anything other than my unfamiliar appearance in the mirror, which means watching Belladonna as she commands the room with her intense presence.

She’s wearing a pale green bridesmaid dress that our mother chose.

It’s flattering and hugs her curves in all the right places.

It’s not the dress I liked or even the colors I’d wanted, but admittedly, it looks good on her.

This wedding, for all intents and purposes, though, is really for my mother. I am just another prop.

“Sorry,” Belladonna says, not sounding remorseful at all. “Traffic was insane.”

I tear my gaze from my sister to glance at the clock. That excuse is laughable. She has a driver, and there likely was no traffic.

When our eyes meet, she freezes. It’s such an odd reaction, I find myself fixated on it. There’s usually such arrogance rippling from my sister.

But I see a flicker of something reflected back at me that looks an awful lot like guilt. Since when does Belladonna feel guilty about anything? Triumph, absolutely. Smugness, sure. But guilt? Never.

I blink rapidly, trying to make sense of this. My heart aches to believe it’s because she’s shown up late, but my gut throws a fit. Something’s off with her.

She tears her eyes from mine as I absently dab at the sweat on my upper lip and her attention falls on the glittering diamond on my finger. Her eyebrows pinch slightly, but it’s enough to put my senses on high alert.

Something’s wrong.

What did she do? She’s conniving, but Belladonna never cares about anyone but herself.

“You okay, Silvie?” she asks, voice too bright as she inspects me with a pitying look. “You seem...tired.”

And there it is. There’s always a double-edged sword. A question, as if she cares, blanketed by an insult. Typical.

“I’m fine,” I say automatically before I realize that I’m actually not even close to being fine. In fact, I’m so far from fine, it’s not even funny.

But that’s just what I always say. Everything’s fine. It’s been like that for so long that I don’t know how not to just be fine. And frankly, I’m sick of it.

Is that what this is all about?

Am I having a mental breakdown at the most inopportune time of my life?