by Stella Gray
“I, um, I need to tell you some—”
“Brooklyn, you haven’t eaten a thing!” Stefan interrupts. “I know you probably have pre-wedding jitters and all that, but you’re missing out.” He leans over my shoulder and spears a piece of tempura shrimp with my fork, then brings it to my lips with an expectancy I can’t deny. I eat it to appease him and he starts talking to Luka. Before I know it, he’s feeding me another.
“Why am I feeding your bride instead of you?” Stefan teases his brother with an amused laugh. They banter back and forth for a while, and my future brother-in-law goes back to his spot to retrieve his drink before mingling with someone else.
I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “Wow. Stefan seems to be in a good mood. He usually seems more…serious.”
“True.” Luka leans closer toward me. “To be honest, I can’t remember the last time I saw my family this laid back, especially not about something as big as a wedding. They’re actually relaxed. Stefan’s been downright easygoing. I guess we’ve really been nailing the PR stuff.”
My stomach clenches and I clear my throat. “Yeah, that must be it. I’m glad.”
Luka glances at my full plate. “Are you nervous? Is that why you’re not eating?”
I’m not going to lie to him. It is nerves, and so much more. “Yes.”
His warm hand wraps over mine and he kisses me on the cheek so gently that I shiver. I quickly eat a prosciutto-wrapped scallop before I blurt everything out right here and now.
“What did you want to tell me?” he prods.
“Hmm?”
His brows knit together in concern. “Earlier, you said there was something you wanted to talk to me about.”
I look around to see if we can possibly leave for a few minutes without anyone stopping us. For the moment, all the guests are seated and talking, their attention anywhere but on Luka and me. It’s the perfect time to escape for a little bit. Which is necessary, because he may not take this well.
In fact, it might go over like a fucking bomb.
“Can we have a few minutes alone?” I ask, my heart in my throat.
“Hey-o!” a voice interrupts. “I haven’t had a chance to meet your smokin’ hot bride yet!”
Luka rises to greet the man rushing up behind us. I recognize him as one of Luka’s groomsmen, someone he went through his MBA program with, but we haven’t been formally introduced. Luka makes the introductions and small talk ensues. Before I know it, the dinner plates are being cleared and dessert is brought around. Everyone resumes their seats and the din of conversation hums loudly in my ears.
People I barely know stand to raise toasts to Luka and me, but it’s Mateo’s speech that has my eyes stinging. It’s brief but heartfelt, and when he says he wishes me and Luka an amazing journey together, I can’t help wishing the same. I should burn that contract from Elite Image.
Or should I just sign it and guarantee my success?
Fuck, why is this so hard? I know where my heart is…and it isn’t with Elite. But what if I’m making a huge mistake, letting my feelings for Luka get the better of me? My brain says this arrangement with him isn’t a sure thing. But betraying him feels wrong in every way.
By the time a selection of cakes and pastries are passed along with brandy and carafes of coffee, the noise has dimmed, and the guests are winding down. True to his word earlier, Luka eats two huge pieces of cheesecake, then leans back in his chair and stretches his arms over his head. He looks satisfied and…happy.
“Brooklyn, look at me,” he says quietly. I glance at him and he’s holding a bite of dessert on his fork for me. “Consider it practice for tomorrow when I feed you cake.”
“When you smear her face in it, you mean?” someone across the table hollers.
I hold Luka’s gaze as I take the offered treat, and everyone cheers. We’re not going to get a moment alone. I don’t have any choice but to ride the rest of this evening out and put my conscience behind me.
“You better not even think of smearing it on my face.” I try to join in on the fun, but I’m two seconds away from losing my composure. The papers in my purse whisper to me, reminding me that I can’t have true happiness unless I clear the air. I want to. I’m trying! I need to get him alone for a couple of minutes and explain everything.
“Brooklyn, when you have a minute, can I show you something?”
It’s the wedding planner. Glad for the escape, I excuse myself and meet her in the lobby to go over a couple of last-minute details. There’s been a small change to the color of the ribbon on the flowers. The seating arrangement for the reception was altered slightly. Did I want the ring bearer to carry the ring in his little tux pocket or on the silk pillow?
By the time I go back inside, the guests are leaving. Luka rushes over and kisses my forehead. Emzee and Tori come up behind me and loop their arms through mine.
“She’s ours now. Bye-bye, loser.” Emzee waves him off.
“See you tomorrow,” Luka calls to me. He looks back as if expecting me to reply. I don’t, because I can’t get anything out.
“Oh no, she already has stage fright!” Tori pats my hand. “Come on. The hotel room we booked has a fully stocked bar. We’ll get you through this.”
My future sisters-in-law whisk me off to the luxury hotel we’re staying in tonight and I know they’re going to take good care of me. They’ll have to, because I’m in no shape to do anything except drown in the guilt over not coming clean to Luka before I become his wife.
Brooklyn
Chapter 26
I’m getting married.
I am getting married.
Today. Soon. In a few minutes.
I let out a slow breath as Tori adjusts the lacy folds of my voluminous, hand-beaded veil. We’re standing before a tall oval mirror and I’m having a hard time believing the princess in the glass is me. The ivory Vera Wang dress fits like an absolute glove, the strapless bodice cupping my breasts and giving me killer cleavage. The skirt conforms to my hips and bursts into a pile of gorgeous, fluffy ruffles about mid-thigh to the floor, accentuating my statuesque figure. It’s simple and expensively elegant. Stefan, my brother-in-law to-be, surprised me with an antique teardrop pearl necklace on a rose-gold chain (“Something old, as the saying goes,” he’d told me with a wink. “Tori helped pick it out.”), and it’s the perfect adornment to my dream dress.
My hair cascades down my back in big, glossy curls. I instructed the makeup artist to go with a light touch, except for a bold lip to match the unexpected pop of the bright red heels that peek beneath my hem when I lift my skirts.
Diamond studs borrowed from Tori sparkle in my ears, setting off the glitter of my engagement ring. As I give myself a final once-over, I have to admit I look perfect. All of it feels simply perfect.
Forget the princess. I look like a queen.
“I know you’re a model and all, but seriously, you are absolute perfection.” Tori spins me around so she can fiddle with my veil from the front. She and Emzee are in fabulous dresses of nude and dusty rose; my only requirement for the bridesmaids was that they wear warm neutrals.
“Thank you,” I say, feeling unexpectedly emotional.
My inner well is full. Despite everything, there’s joy in there, and it’s surreal that I have Tori and Emzee here to fuss over me, just like real sisters would. I’ve been complacent and quiet, letting them primp and fix and fluff to their hearts’ content. They’re genuinely happy to see Luka getting married—something I can’t quite wrap my head around, considering this is all a sham. Maybe they’re hoping this will really turn into something and Luka will finally have a little family of his own to love. Maybe…he’ll finally have that intimate connection with someone in the way he never did when he was growing up. I know that I want those things for him.
But can I really be that person?
“We’re just so lucky to have you!” Emzee grins and gives me a tentative hug, careful not to muss my dress. I squeeze her back. She was the one
who had my garter custom-made with a tiny blue bow stitched to it, to make sure I’d have my “something blue” for the wedding.
“Remember, you guys promised not to say anything that would make me cry,” I say. “Five-hundred-dollar makeup over here.” I point to my face, trying to keep things lighthearted.
My mom just left the room a few minutes ago to take her seat. Meanwhile my dad is waiting outside to walk me down the aisle, and I’ve been reminding myself over and over not to cry the moment I see him. This wedding isn’t real. It’s not. I have to remember that, or I’ll never get through it dry-eyed.
“I wonder if Luka’s as nervous as I am,” I say.
“I’m sure he is,” Tori says. “But you shouldn’t be. It’s going to go by so fast you won’t have time to feel nervous. Trust me. My wedding was a total blur.”
Despite Tori’s kind words, I doubt my fake fiancé is feeling much of anything. There’s no way he’s as caught up in the excitement of the day as I am.
My impending nuptials aren’t the only reason I’m anxious, though. When Emzee and Tori whisked me away from the rehearsal dinner last night, I didn’t get a chance to tell Luka what was on my mind—the Elite contract. To avoid the lingering guilt, I turn my thoughts to imagining him standing there waiting at the other end of the aisle. He’s already breathtaking, and I’m eagerly anticipating the sight of him decked to the nines in all his wedding glory.
“I bet he looks amazing,” I say with a sigh. “Have either of you seen him in his tux?”
“Sure,” Emzee says with one of her signature eye-rolls. “And he looks just as plain and unattractive as ever.”
I can’t help laughing, even as Tori tsks her sister-in-law.
They both comes close to stand next to me, and the three of us look into the mirror. “He looks great,” Tori says. “And I’ve honestly never seen him so excited.”
Excited?
Luka’s family has taken this sham wedding in stride and elevated their acceptance of it by actually embracing it as if it’s real. Planning everything has definitely had its perks and moments of excitement for me, even though I’ve kept the end game forefront in my mind. Luka hadn’t seemed excited over any of it. He’d simply gone through the motions, letting me handle the decisions. But he’d been different at the rehearsal dinner last night, enjoying himself like a true groom might.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “Maybe he’s just trying to talk himself out of backing out.”
“He’s not going to back out!” Emzee gives my bare shoulder a little squeeze and I cover her hand with mine. We share a smile in the mirror and then she slips out of the room for a moment, then comes back to crack the door and wave at me.
Beside me, Tori’s shoulders bunch around her ears with excitement. “It’s time! Ready?”
She hands me my bouquet, a custom creation I chose made of huge blush-colored peonies, exotic succulents, and fragrant hydrangeas. I can only nod.
Suddenly, I’m whisked out of the dressing room and into the hall of the nineteenth century mansion we rented for the ceremony and the reception. My one ask in regard to the venue was that we be married someplace that had “history,” and our wedding planner hadn’t disappointed. The Esmoor Estate rarely allows weddings as large as ours, but they had been happy to make an exception for the Zorics, of course, and the wedding planner spared no expense or detail in creating the ultimate fairy tale out of the place.
Above my head, sparkling chandeliers hang between drapes of sheer fabric. The polished marble of the hallway floor is dusted with pale pink rose petals. The hem of my dress swishes against them as I take my father’s arm.
“My little girl’s all grown up,” he chokes out. He lowers my veil and wipes his eyes and I have to look away so I don’t start to cry, too.
Then he leads me to the yawning ballroom where the ceiling above us is hung with arrangements of rose branches, lush ferns, and creamy wisteria in abundant groupings intermixed with garlands of crystal drops hanging delicately between the blooms. An ivory runner lines the walk between rows of chairs. The soft prelude music flutters to silence as everyone rises.
I grip my father’s arm tightly as we pause at the end of the aisle. Tori and Emzee are standing beside the pastor, lined up beside Mateo, my “maid of honor,” in his dashing pale pink Dolce & Gabbana suit. I’d told him that beige was fine, but he’d wanted to go all out.
And then I spy Luka on the other side, just as I imagined, waiting for me beneath the elegant arch covered in greenery and tiny fairy lights. My chest hitches, my mind suddenly whirling. I force myself to focus on the music. The wedding march will start any second—
Suddenly, there’s a musical beat, then another…then another, and I immediately recognize the song. My dad looks at me with surprise that probably mirrors my own, and I can’t hold back a shocked gasp. Billy Joel’s She’s Got A Way begins to softly play in all its musical glory.
I can’t believe Luka remembered!
I look at him and wish he was closer so I could fully see his expression. I’d once mentioned to him that this song had been a favorite of mine and my dad’s, kind of “our song” since we danced to it at my middle school winter festival dance. Luka had seemed a bit shocked when I told him but wouldn’t explain why, until I finally got it out of him that the song was special to him, too. A housekeeper had taught him to slow dance to it so he could impress a girl in fifth grade. It was something we shared that unified us with the people who’d helped us grow.
And now we would be helping each other, and the song would connect us in our own special way. A collective sound of delight comes from our guests as the song softly plays, and with a gentle squeeze to my hand, my dad walks me down the aisle.
A shiver goes down the back of my neck as Luka comes into focus. His tux is bespoke, the lapels glossy black satin. A crisp white shirt makes the dusky hue of his skin pop. Diamond cufflinks sparkle, reminiscent of my engagement ring. His lips part as he watches me approach, eyes wide with an emotion I can’t read.
“Awestruck,” my dad whispers with a smile. “That look is called completely awestruck.”
He kisses my cheek and places my hand on Luka’s arm, and I realize that I haven’t stopped staring at the gorgeous face of my almost-husband. We must stare at each other too long, because we’re softly directed to turn inside the arch and face the pastor. Luka’s hand slides over mine with a warmth I can feel flowing through every inch of me.
“Dearly beloved…”
The ceremony starts and it really is like a dream. Words I’ve heard in romantic movies a million times are now applied to me. Words that are intended to have real meaning and conviction when they’re repeated. My heart is racing.
We turn to face each other, and Luka takes my other hand in his. The weight of my dress becomes palpable, but not because I’m scared or second-guessing—instead, my body feels weak from the intensity in Luka’s eyes as he begins to state his vows.
His tone is clear and steady and confident, and so full of conviction that I believe what he’s saying. He’s sincere.
Our fingers twine together as if we intend to never let go, and now it’s my turn to make him believe I mean each and every word.
I repeat the vows, saying them as clearly and confidently as Luka did for me. As each word comes out of my mouth, the intention with which I repeat it grows. This may have started out as a sham, but it doesn’t feel like it now…and I want nothing more than to make my life with Luka work. He cups my face in his hands at the exact moment I decide what I want for our future, his grin stealing my breath right before he kisses me softly, tenderly. Lovingly.
Everyone claps and cheers and I barely have time to pull my emotions back in before we’re ushered down the aisle as man and wife, flower petals raining down on us.
I’m Mrs. Luka Zoric in name, and if things continue like this, I will be in heart, too.
I don’t let myself overthink anything as we follow our guests up the curving, split s
taircase that leads to the reception upstairs. The intricate gilded iron railing is decorated in pink and cream flowers with plumes of natural greenery, and tea lights glow softly at the edges of each step. I laugh a little as I take it all in. Even the stairs are perfect.
“Take a deep breath, Brooklyn,” Luka whispers in my ear. “The hard part is over.”
I smile up at him and enjoy the depth of emotion rippling through me. Finally, we enter the second-floor ballroom, hand in hand, to loud cheers and a few whistles.
Above us, billows of organza drape from the ceiling. Perfectly arranged tables are set with lightly patterned china and cut crystal glasses rimmed in gold. Four-foot tall crystal flutes hold floral topiaries, and live cherry blossom trees stand at each end of the long table for the wedding party. The pale pink fabric napkins I picked out have our initials monogrammed on them and look amazing beneath the golden glow of the flatware.
As much as Luka left the wedding decisions to me and the planner, I also encouraged him to incorporate some personal elements of his own. I spy the first of our little personal touches as a server comes around with his favorite gold label Veuve Clicquot champagne. Another has a tray with hors d'oeuvres of my favorite Great Lakes whitefish with rosemary and cucumber on rye toast, and Luka’s requested crème fraîche and caviar tartlets. We’re handed champagne and we clink our glasses together before taking a sip.
With a quick pull of his hand on my wrist, I’m up against my husband and he’s kissing me with the sweetness of champagne on his lips. Tilting my head, I take his mouth deeper, pressing into the warmth of his body.
Luka presses a hand to my back, his fingers splaying against my bare skin. His breathing picks up, his grip on me tightening…
“Groomsmen! Gather around Luka!”
My head is swimming as Luka is peeled away by a man with a camera on a tripod. Luka insisted we hire an outside professional to take pictures so that Emzee could just enjoy herself, but as the resident photographer in the family, she couldn’t help bringing her own camera to the wedding. I’ve already spotted her snapping photos, and I’m glad. I know they’ll be way more fun, intimate, and candid than any of the posed pictures that our hired photographer will get.
