Wedding Vows of Revenge

Chapter 1 Lexie

The golden magenta morning sunlight splinters through my blinds and I blink against the light. Ugh. It’s too bright. I place the pillow cradled in my arms over my eyes, then nestle under the warm covers.

Wait! Why is it bright? I bolt up in bed so quickly my head rushes with a nauseating whoosh and grab my cell phone—my dead cell phone—to check the time. “No. No, no, no…” My heartbeat thunders in my chest. This can’t be happening. Please for the love of Christ, tell me this didn’t happen.

“Oh God, oh God…” I dash to plug my cell into a different outlet, add the landlord to my internal hit list because he promised these outlets were fixed, and race into the shower.

I hate this apartment I moved into a few months ago, with its shoddy electrical work, barely functioning stove, and outlets that trip more often than a drunk sorority girl in heels.

But it’s all I can afford and an hour closer to work than my other apartment.

But why, for the love of God, did this have to happen today?

The day that my traditionally cool, calm, and collected manager, Sydney, owner of a boutique wedding-planning agency, has been frantically obsessing over for weeks.

In my past life, I clearly shattered one too many mirrors, burned someone at the stake or forgot to toss salt over my shoulder because I swear bad luck trails me like a toxic fog.

The shower is the quickest of my life and I forgo beachy waves for putting my hair in what I hope looks like a sharp, professional ponytail and not what it actually is—that I overslept like an amateur for what might be the most important client meeting we’ve ever had.

I stuff my heels into my backpack and shove on my sneakers to run the four blocks to the subway station.

Even though I’m bracing against the bitter wind and blinking fat snowflakes from my eyelashes, by the time I sit down, I’m fanning my sweaty face and double checking that I brought extra deodorant.

I flip my phone to selfie mode to finish my makeup and confirm that I’m at least somewhat presentable for this mystery couple.

My white shirt is clean and crisp and makes my red hair pop.

More than one person has complimented the way white brings out my green eyes and dusting of freckles.

This shirt is the best one in my small business-wear arsenal, and the one that says, “I am more than an assistant planner.” Which is true.

Five years after clawing and begging to get hired—which is not easy to do in this city with limited education and zero resources—I’ve busted my ass to prove my worth at Shades of White.

I’m ready for Sydney to stop looking at me like the inexperienced assistant coordinator she hired and start seeing me as a lead.

And today, if all goes well, I’ll solidify the next step in my career.

You know, if I weren’t stumbling into the office forty-five minutes late.

Breathe.

As the train rumbles on the tracks, I tap my thumbs against the phone to text my co-worker Justin.

Lexie: Alarm didn’t go off. On my way. Please cover for me.

Justin: Already did. I told Sydney you weren’t feeling good and went to the main lobby bathroom.

Lexie: I seriously love you.

Justin: Brace yourself. She just color-coded the folders on my desk. FFS.

Lexie: Jesus, her anal retentiveness is sky high lately.

Justin: Truth.

By the time I reach the building lobby, I’m a certifiable sweaty catastrophe. I shrug off my jacket, swap my sneakers for heels, and shoot Justin a message that I’m heading up.

Ding. I tiptoe out the elevator doors, peek around the corner through the glass wall, past the tall pale oak reception desk with our Shades of White logo written in script and thank the wedding planner gods that Sydney added a twelve-tiered-cake-sized flower bouquet in the center that partially blocks the hall view.

I grit my teeth at our twin receptionists, Amanda and Megan, who both give me knowing nods.

My heart is racing so fast that I’m convinced it’s going to jump from my chest and splatter on the floor as I pivot, duck behind some office greenery, dart across our bastardly, unforgiving open-plan floor, and practically swan-dive into my chair.

True to his word—did I mention I love this guy?

—Justin winks at me from the other side of the room as he wraps Sydney in conversation.

Justin oozes charm without even trying. Perfectly coifed blond hair. Bright baby blues. A great ass—although I swear I only observe from afar. He’s even achieved the impossible by coaxing a smile out of Sydney, who’s been one big ball of stress lately.

Still trying to catch my breath, I open my laptop and start reading through emails when Sydney’s signature heavy heel clacking against the hardwood floors grabs my attention.

Her black glasses slip down her nose as she frowns and storms my way.

Crap. Here it comes. “You look like shit. Please don’t tell me you have the flu. ”

And good morning to you, Sunshine.

I grab a notebook and fan my face. “Nope, no flu.” No, I just woke up, plowed through a group of businessmen running down the street, slipped on snow on the sidewalk, stubbed my toe on a garbage can and probably caught tetanus while barefoot in our lobby.

But I’m great. “I’ll be fine. I must’ve eaten something bad last night. ”

“Good, because we have no room for errors, Lexie. None.” She purses her ruby red lips, and swipes a hand down her glass-like, straightened-within-an-inch-of-its-life, blonde hair. “Because this new project is going to be incredible.”

A squeal squeaks through her slim, pale throat and she gives me a pat on the hand.

“You should run back to the bathroom and fix all this, though,” she says, her clunky gold bracelets jangling as she waves at my face. “We don’t want these clients to walk away before they even sit down.”

She gives me a sly grin and a squeeze on my shoulder. I swear if anyone else said this, they’d get an elbow to the jaw. But Sydney gets a lifetime pass.

Sydney came into my life at a time when everything was falling to pieces.

After getting unexpectedly expelled from my university in Boston, I was lost, depressed, and desperate for a fresh start.

Restarting my life wasn’t going to be easy, but I refused to give up.

My mom and I needed—deserved—a better life.

So, I hustled my way into a catering gig that needed immediate help. And that’s how I met Sydney.

She was the wedding coordinator at an event I was working.

A consummate professional while I, on the other hand, was a walking disaster.

My day had already gotten off to a bad start after trekking out of city limits for the wedding.

But during the reception, a groomsman got handsy with me.

I’d panicked, stumbled, and crashed into another waiter carrying a tray of champagne flutes.

My manager’s face turned a shade of red I didn’t know existed, and right as he opened his mouth to surely fire me, Sydney swept in like a knight in shining designer shoes.

With a few smooth words, my manager let me off the hook.

She patted my arm, gave me an encouraging smile, and told me to get back out there.

Later that night, she handed me her business card, said she had an eye for talent, had noticed my knack for putting people at ease—champagne-fiasco aside—and insisted I visit her office the following Monday.

I stood there, beaming, and fumbled a shocked “thank you.” When she’d left, I looked down and read: Sydney Thompson, owner of Shades of White, a wedding planning business.

That following Monday, in a half-priced clearance business suit two sizes too big, I was ushered into a room filled with people just like me—nervous, overdressed, and clearly more qualified.

That’s when it hit me: this wasn’t just a meeting.

Sydney had invited me to interview. My gut sank.

I wasn’t special as I’d naively thought.

My name being called was the only thing that stopped me from bolting.

Even though my knees shook, I pulled my shoulders back and walked into her office.

She sat there, calm and unreadable, as I stumbled through her questions. By the end of the interview, the only thing I knew was that I was painfully unqualified.

But later that day, one phone call changed my life forever with two words: You’re hired. And I’ve spent five years desperate to prove she made the right decision.

In the bathroom, I swipe my pinky across my cheekbone to catch a few rogue mascara flakes and add a dot of concealer under my eyes to mask the seven years’ worth of sleepless nights since the incident that changed my life in Boston.

I need to look presentable and professional, and nothing screams poised and prepared like purple halos.

When I step back into the office, Justin’s standing at my desk, holding two coffees.

“Not only are you cute, but you can read minds. Do you ever get tired of being a superhero?” I say, practically ripping the mug from his grip and guzzling some much-needed caffeine.

“What a shitastic morning. I miss my old apartment where the outlets didn’t randomly fizzle out.

I swear my place is a walking fire hazard. What did I miss?”

He sits at the desk adjoining mine and takes a sip. “Not much, but Sydney is driving full speed ahead on the struggle bus today.”

“I don’t think people say that phrase anymore,” I say. “The algorithm sucked you into some suburban mom bullshit.”

“Whatever.” Justin flips open his laptop. “It’s weird, though, right? We all signed the NDA, but she still won’t give us any details. This couple must be huge.”

He’s not wrong. The buzz of heightened energy crackles in the air.

The office is normally lively, but today something’s different.

From the hushed rumblings of co-workers scooting from desk to desk taking bets if the clients are celebrities or politicians, to Sydney’s abnormal skittishness, there’s an extra charge.

Something big is about to happen, and we all know it.

As I take a seat, I cringe at Sydney. She’s spritzing the plants with a lemongrass-scented synthetic spray, and feverishly wiping them with a cloth.

Yikes. Is she trying to kill our office greenery?

I open my mouth, but Justin shakes his head at me, probably knowing I’m about to say something dumb.

I promptly anchor my lip between my teeth.

My mouth has gotten me into trouble before and now is not the time to point out that dousing plants with cleaning products might not be her brightest idea.

Clearly whoever this mystery client is, they’re big enough to make her dust imaginary specks from every surface.

But if she comes over here with a lint brush and a can of hair spray, she’s getting tackled.

A flutter of nerves moves through my stomach.

Although I was raised by a single, hard-working mom who worked double shifts as a hotel housekeeper to feed and house us, I’m not impervious to being around big names.

When I was twenty-one, I worked as a hostess at a high-end restaurant and once a month or so brushed shoulders with a celebrity.

My former manager used to say I had to strike a perfect balance between subservient and confident.

People who ate at these types of restaurants wanted to feel us taking care of them, without us telling them.

I learned how to smile, charm, and seduce. The three main tools in my arsenal.

Seduction doesn’t always mean sex. People love to feel wanted. Desired. Special. Male, female, it doesn’t matter.

So maybe this is a celebrity who hired out our small firm to handle the nuptials. And maybe it’s just some anonymous rich businessperson. Either way, I’ll do whatever it takes for them to fall in love with me. Nothing will stop me from cinching this promotion.

At least, this is what I keep repeating to myself because I’m way more nervous than I want to be. I place a hand on my stomach and tell it to calm the hell down.

“Lexie! Justin! Hurry, up,” Sydney yells and waves at us from across the room. “They’re coming!”

I bolt up from my chair as Sydney props open our glass doors, and we all face the elevator.

Justin stands next to her, and I’m positioned the way she likes me, a few steps behind—the dutiful assistant wedding planner, ready to take notes, smile, and kiss whatever ass needs kissing.

I run a flat palm down the snug pencil skirt that’s hugging my curves and take a breath.

Okay, fine. I’ll admit it. It’s more than just nervousness, I’m so curious to meet this mystery couple.

My smile spreads as the numbers on the elevator counter rise.

Ping. The elevator door opens, and a slow thud starts in my chest. Wow.

Standing in front of me is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.

It’s impossible not to compare myself. She’s such a perfect feminine specimen, she might as well have been created by AI.

Sharp, high cheekbones. Shiny Caribbean-blue eyes.

Dark chocolate-brown hair. Her tiny waist is the same size as my left boob.

She holds an effortless, glowing beauty and looks like boarding schools and generational wealth.

My eyes drop to her hand that must be folding under the weight of a ten-carat diamond, with her fingers clasped around another hand.

My gaze travels up until it settles on a face.

In a flash, everything changes. Like I bumped into an electrical fence, I stumble back and freeze.

The blood drains from my cheeks as I take in those eyes, that no matter how much over the years I tried to drink, fuck, cry, or scream away the memory, I’ll never forget.

Standing in gray slacks and a sharp navy button-down with tattoos peeking out from precisely single-rolled cuffed sleeves, is Theodore Astor.

The man who ruined my life.