14. Lover
Lover
The morning arrives—and so does the weather. Perfect. A clean, endless sky without a single cloud.
Wedding day.
In Philippa’s suite, the bridal party readies itself—Avery, Sienna, and me.
My sister stands at the center of it all like a queen, her chestnut hair swept into a sleek twist, her gown cascading around her in waves of tulle, silk and lace.
Tiny beads shimmering in the light. She looks elegant like something torn from a bridal editorial.
Avery fusses with Philippa’s veil while Sienna adjusts her neckline in the mirror. I stand near the window, staring out at the gardens, smoothing the silk of my dress and sipping a mimosa—because God knows I need it.
I’m not even sure why I’m nervous. It’s not my wedding. But I don’t want to do anything that might fuck it up.
Our dresses are stunning—champagne satin that shimmers. Simple but elegant. Off-the-shoulder, cut just right to make us all look like ethereal goddesses. Not my usual style, but standing beside Philippa dressed like this…we look more like sisters than we ever have before.
“Elena, stop fidgeting,” Philippa says without glancing at me, a teasing lilt in her voice.
I smirk at her reflection. “Hard not to when I’m stuffed into this thing like a prize turkey.”
Sienna snorts. “Please. You look hot and you know it.”
From across the room, Avery chimes in, “You know who’s looking hot this weekend?”
“Who?” Sienna asks, blotting gloss in the mirror.
“Broderick.”
My breath catches mid-sip.
“If you’re into that sort of thing.” I cough, trying to recover.
Cool. Casual. Not jealous.
“That sort of thing?” Sienna scoffs. “Elena, you need your eyes checked. The man was sculpted by the gods.”
If only she knew how divine his sculpted dick felt inside me yesterday.
Philippa catches my eye in the mirror—a knowing glance. No judgment. Just a quiet warning.
“I mean, yeah…I guess. Never really noticed,” I say with a shrug.
“Oh, come on, Elena,” Avery groans. “It’s been, what, almost two months since things ended with Alexander?”
The sound of his name strikes something in me, a chord I can’t unhear.
“Time to move on, sweetie,” Sienna says, reapplying her lipstick. “Unless you were serious about being a lesbian with Riley.”
“Avery, Sienna—leave her the fuck alone,” Philippa snaps, not even looking up as the makeup artist dusts powder across her face.
They both recoil. The queen has spoken.
I shoot her a grateful look. She winks back, and it warms something small and tender in my chest.
Our relationship has made strides these past few days, and for all the drama we’ve weathered, it feels like we’re finally in a good place.
I narrow my eyes at Avery, but she just sips her champagne, smiling coyly behind the flute.
Bitch.
“Alright, ladies.” Yasmin’s voice floats in from the hall, clipboard in hand, all business as usual. “It’s time.”
A hush sweeps through the room—nerves, anticipation, all of it.
Philippa rises—slow, graceful—smoothing the skirt of her gown. Then she turns to us. Her bridesmaids. Her girls.
“Let’s do this,” she says softly, eyes glinting.
The Ravenswood Estate’s gardens transform into a sea of soft ivory and blush blooms, golden autumn leaves drifting lazily through the air.
White chairs frame the stone aisle, leading to a domed gazebo with a wrought-iron roof.
Flowing fabric wraps around each column, anchored by cascading florals that look almost too perfect to be real. It’s immaculate.
The afternoon sun is surprisingly warm, casting everything in a golden glow. The scent of freesias hangs thick in the air—sweet and heady.
I don’t really believe in the whole fanfare of weddings—not the way Philippa does. But even I have to admit it’s stunning. Meticulous down to the last detail. Exactly what I’d expect from her.
A piano rendition of “Truly, Madly, Deeply” by Savage Garden plays, and I step forward. The stone path is steady beneath my heels—though it might as well be a tightrope.
Don’t trip. Smile.
The hem of my dress brushes my calves, catching the breeze as I move.
Riley catches my eye from the second row and grins, blowing me a kiss—subtle but bold, in that way only she could pull off. I nearly break into a giggle. Nearly.
Jack is beside her, looking proud as punch. He shifts uncomfortably in his new suit.
Carole sits in the front row, beside an empty chair, already crying, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief that matches her dress.
Andrew stands at the altar, hands clasped tight in front of him, lips pressed into a polite smile. His eyes look glassy, nerves clear in the way his jaw ticks, his weight shifting from one foot to the other.
Then I see him.
Broderick. Straight-backed in a classic black tuxedo—next to Andrew, looking like that is unfair.
Black bowtie. Crisp white shirt. His hair is neatly styled, though still unruly at the edges.
In the sun, the dark mahogany strands almost glow with auburn at the ends.
And his eyes—those deep green eyes—lock on mine the second I step into view. They soften.
The butterflies kick harder. Or maybe it’s just the nerves.
I force my steps steady, my smile soft.
Don’t trip. Smile.
When I reach my place beside the other bridesmaids, his gaze is still on me—unflinching. I try not to look back, but I can’t help it.
As the music swells, the double patio doors open. Philippa steps into view. I turn, fixing my eyes on the aisle.
She is breathtaking—her face lit with pure joy.
I’d spent the morning with her, but I’d never seen her like this. Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, her whole being radiant, glowing from within.
She takes two careful steps before our father appears at her side, offering his arm.
His proud expression softens the moment he looks at her.
My stomach drops. Jealousy claws sharp inside me at their bond. That softness—he’s never once given it to me.
I swallow, forcing myself to focus on the moment.
Together, they glide down the aisle, picture-perfect, the crowd marveling at her beauty and grace.
I sneak a glance at Broderick. He’s still staring right at me, my heart hammering wild in my chest.
I roll my eyes.
He winks.
Cheeky bastard.
Then my gaze drifts back to Andrew—tears streaking quietly down his face, awe etched in every line of him.
He looks like a man at the top of the world. His beautiful bride just inches away.
My heart pangs. Would I ever know love like that?
I look down at the bouquet in my hands. I thought I had something with Alex. I mean, it felt like we were headed there—if not for him breaking up with me.
I swallow back the hurt.
My thoughts threatening to crack the facade I’ve plastered on.
Breathe. Don’t falter. It’s not about you right now.
Beside Andrew, I catch Broderick’s brow lift. Something about the way he looks at me soothes the ache inside, as if he’s answering the questions swirling through my head.
I glance back at Andrew and Philippa, now side by side, my father taking his seat beside Carole. He touches a hand to his heart.
The gesture seems so unlike him. Soft. Almost endearing. This is the longest stretch of time I’ve ever been around my father.
In truth, I don’t really know him—nor did I care to try. Not until that promise to my mom.
As Philippa and Andrew exchange vows, I sink into the moment, hanging on every word.
Every promise.
Hoping, for their sakes, they’d never break them. I’m proud of her. Proud to share this with them.
I sneak another look at Broderick. He’s no longer staring at me.
As I study his profile, a wave of heat floods me. That gorgeous man had let me do whatever I wanted to him. The memory thrills me. Because I can’t wait for him to do more unspeakable things to me.
He must sense it—because just as I’m openly ogling him, our eyes meet.
He smirks.
Behave, I mouth, though my pulse is already racing.
“I’m going to fuck him tonight,” Avery whispers.
I don’t know if that’s meant for me or a general declaration to the universe.
First the comments about Alex, now Broderick. This bullshit is wearing thin.
Back off, bitch.
The thought comes so fast. Even it surprises me.
By the time the ceremony ends and guests drift toward cocktail hour, I can still feel Broderick’s gaze trailing me as I greet guests, smile for photos, and play the part of dutiful maid of honor.
Even as I’m reeling from Avery’s earlier jab—as if Alex and I had been just some passing fling—the ache in my chest tells a different story. He was the first man I’d truly let in.
And now Broderick.
Her comment shouldn’t have gotten under my skin. We’d agreed—this wasn’t exclusive. We were allowed to date. That was the deal.
But still.
The thought of her with him makes my stomach twist. I’m not ready for this to end.
Maybe that’s what he wants. Maybe Avery can give him the ease I can’t. The certainty.
Broderick is free. I don’t own him. I know that.
But God, I’d hope he wouldn’t.
Not yet.
Not with her.
For the sake of the agreement, I tell myself.
The photographer finally dismisses us, ushering Philippa and Andrew away for newlywed portraits. And then Broderick appears at my side—summoned by instinct.
“You look…” His eyes rake over me, slow and dark, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Edible.”
I shoot him a warning look, though heat climbs up my neck. “Behave.”
“Not a chance.”
He takes my hand, tugging gently but with purpose, leading me toward one of the estate’s side paths—away from the crowd.
“Broderick,” I hiss, glancing around.
But he’s already slipping us through a side door, kicking it shut behind us.
We stumble into a small sitting room—velvet couches, dark paneling, heavy curtains drawn tight.
“You’re insane,” I breathe, already backing toward the wall as his hands follow, like they can’t bear not to touch me.
“And you love it,” he murmurs, just before his mouth finds mine—unleashing the pent-up yearning.
I gasp into him as his hands slide down my waist, gripping the silk of my dress. I pull him closer, fingers threading into his hair, anchoring him to me.