Beauty and the Rose: a Beauty and the Rose Novel

by Black, Stasia

“Yes, wow.” He kneels and fusses with my hem. “Don’t you worry. We’re going to get this party started as soon as the rain leaves. Which it should, soon. I have virgins on standby to sacrifice to the gods, in case we need extra insurance to be sure this wedding goes off without a hitch. Anal virgins. It was too hard to find the other kind.”

  “Haha,” I say weakly.

  Armand stands and dusts off his hand, straightening his own tux jacket. He looks incredible, but I’m suddenly too nervous to speak. A young man in his own tuxedo ducks in and signals Armand before rushing out again.

  “That’s our cue.” Before I can protest, Armand pushes my wheelchair to the front door.

  A sense of readiness cloaks me as I look out onto the lawn. Armand’s staff has performed a miracle, transforming Thornhill into a wonderland.

  The reception tent is a vast white bird poised in flight. Beside it is a canopied area for the main ceremony covered by a sort of lattice work dripping with wisteria. Guests are making their way to the chairs, escorted by men in tuxes.

  “We toweled off the entire ceremony area,” Armand tells me.

  “It looks perfect.” I motion him to push me forward onto the wheelchair ramp so I can see how they decorated the front of the house. There’s a green ivy canopy that wasn’t there when I rolled in last night.

  A stream of men and women in tuxedos and lovely gowns keep coming and muttering reports to Armand.

  “All guests seated,” one blue-haired woman announces. She gives me a thumbs up before walking off.

  “This is it,” Armand murmurs as a young man runs up and stands at attention holding a bouquet of peach colored roses. My bouquet. “You ready?”

  “Yes,” I touch the controls to direct the wheelchair. They built a ramp from the front door all the way to the wedding ceremony area, and sprinkled it with rose petals. My own red carpet.

  Armand is still fussing with my hair, arranging each individual curl to his satisfaction. “The rose petals won’t be a problem? We can clear the ramp—”

  “The rose petals are fine.”

  “All right, babygirl.” One hand swipes at his eyes as he lays the bouquet in my lap. “You look beautiful.” He bends and air kisses either cheeks, ever careful to not smear my makeup. “Your mother would be so proud.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper and he steps away, dabbing his own eyes.

  My limbs feel weak as I face the long, long ramp to the ceremony area and the waiting guests. Soft symphony music wafts over the lawn.

  There’s no one to escort me down the aisle, and I like it that way. I live my own life. I come to Logan of my own volition. I will navigate my own way into the life of my dreams.

  I roll myself down the newly made ramp. As I get close, a hidden signal warns the musicians to end their song with a long, lingering note. And then a harp starts to pluck a delicate version of The Swan by Saint-Saëns. The heart-breaking melody flows out from under the hanging garden.

  For a moment, the notes and the scent of flowers swirl together, like something out of a dream. This moment is so beautiful. So longed for.

  The perfection is painful, and for a second I feel as if I’m going to crack in two.

  My mother’s angel statue is off to the side. The way the sculpture’s face is angled, it’ll look like she’s watching the ceremony.

  “Love you, mom,” I mouth. And as I roll the final few feet to the first row of chairs, the sun breaks from the clouds, warming my back.

  I urge my chair faster. The guests all rise as one, but I can’t look to the left or right. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until I see Logan. He stands, a monolith in black. I think he’s the only one not wearing a tux. He joked he was going to wear a lab coat, and he did. Armand almost had a heart attack.

  There’s a sprig of green pinned to his jacket. I focus on it as I get closer. It’s a clipping from a bush, an evergreen of some sort, frozen in resin. Needles and a single red berry.

  “Yew,” I whisper to myself, and am rewarded by my fiancé’s smile.

  I reach the end of the aisle. The priestess motions for the audience to be seated. The harpist ends one song and starts another.

  I take a moment to view the guests. There’s Armand, just settling into his seat. He was probably rearranging the final floral flourish himself.

  Beside him, Cora Ubeli glows in a sky blue dress. Her two children sit straight and solemn between her and her husband. I give Cora a little wave and she beams at me. Her adorable young daughter tugs her mom’s sleeve and points at me, and Cora leans down to whisper in the little girl’s ear. Both mother and daughter have bright blue eyes.

  I could have planned on rising out of my wheelchair for the ceremony—I am strong enough—but today is going to be long and I want to conserve my strength. I hesitate with my hands on the armrests, wavering on the decision. Sit or stand?

  Logan makes it for me. Gracefully for a man of his size, he lowers himself to one knee. The look of love in his blue eyes washes over me, and I have to turn away. Judging from a few sniffles in the audience, I’m not the only one blinking away tears.

  “Daphne,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”

  “I can’t,” I whisper, blinking rapidly. “You’re gonna make me cry.” I half laugh and breathe deep, trying to push my tears back.

  “It’s okay, baby.” His big hand hovers at my cheek, dabbing my made-up face with a white handkerchief. “I’ve got you.”

  “So I look all right?” I can face him now. The tightness in my chest has eased, washed away as his scent surrounds me. There’s just Logan and me here. Nothing else matters.

  “You look beautiful.” His deep voice is balm to my soul.

  “Thank you.” I keep my eyes down, fastening onto the sight of our hands entwined. The ceremony proceeds. Most of it’s a blur, but a few moments I’ll remember forever.

  The breeze stirring the flowers overhead.

  The slanting sunlight illuminating my mother’s statue, haloing her peaceful mien.

  The way Logan’s voice stumbles on the words “in sickness and in health.”

  The way his hands squeeze mine. He doesn’t let go—even to slide on the ring. It was as if he expected me to disappear mid-ceremony.

  “In sickness and in health,” I repeat, covering his big hand with mine. “‘Til death...and beyond.” It’s my turn to grip him hard.

  I’m never letting you go. Death be damned.

  I barely hear the priestess’s final words. Logan is smiling at me. He leans in and brushes his lips over mine.

  I blink at him, suddenly dizzy. “We did it?”

  “We did it. Come here,” his arms are around me, pressing me closer as he gives me a deeper kiss. He scoops me up, his lips never leaving mine as the crowd rises to their feet and roars their approval.

  Logan carries me through a shower of rose petals—shot from a cannon manned by Armand himself. We end up in the reception tent where there’s a huge white throne for me to sit on to receive guests. The Ubelis are first in line.

  “I feel like a queen,” I whisper to Cora Ubeli.

  “Queen for a day. You look beautiful.” She bends and kisses my cheek. “Congratulations.”

  The next few hours are a blur. I greet guests and shake hands until I feel like my hand is going to fall off.

  Then a five course dinner—which I can barely eat because every other second people clink their glasses and Logan and I have to kiss. Not that I mind.

  After the last course, before the cake cutting, a band called The Muses strikes up their top hits. And I have enough energy to rise and walk on my own to the elevated dance floor—which is a glass case filled with a carpet of ferns and roses, exactly as Armand described.

  I squeal as Logan lifts me into the air and whirls me around. But he doesn’t let me back down to the ground. He keeps me in his arms as we sway to the music.

  “I’m walking better now,” I whisper in his ear, my arms around his neck. “You don’t have to carry me ev
erywhere.”

  He just nuzzles his face into the crook of my neck. “Now that you’re Mrs. Logan Wulfe, you’re nuts if you think I’m ever letting you go, even for a single damn minute.”

  I don’t expect the absolute explosion of joy in my chest, and not expecting it makes it all the sharper. This was never supposed to be my life. I’m not the girl who gets the fairytale ending.

  But being surrounded by our friends and loved ones, at the wedding straight out of my dreams, being held by a man who loves me with his whole heart, what else can you call it?

  Does he feel it? Does Logan feel the perfection he’s given me? That I was cracked and broken before he found me, but he was the only medicine I ever needed. The balm to my broken heart after I lost my mother and my father’s rejection.

  And, feeling all his heart muscles beneath my soft body, I know he’s so much more than that. He’s the igniter of passions, the storm that shook up my staid, colorless world, and he’s been my hope and strength at times these past few months when I couldn’t manage any on my own.

  He’s the love of my life. My partner on this journey. The other half of my soul.

  I tip my head back to look at him and see everything I’m feeling reflected in his dark eyes.

  I can’t help drawing his head down to mine. He’s still careful, but I’ve been more desperately physical lately than ever. I think both of us need it. To prove to ourselves that we are real and still here together.

  And when his lips touch mine—

  Heaven.

  There’s a tent full of people watching us but that doesn’t stop Logan. He teases at the seam of my lips with his tongue and when I open to him, I only barely manage to stifle my moan, even though we’re in the middle of the dance floor. But I’ve never been able to manage restraint when it comes to Logan.

  He’s just started to deepen the kiss when there’s a shrill whistle. Like someone blowing on an actual whistle. What on earth—?

  I pull back from Logan lips in confusion. Is this some kind of gag before Armand gives his toast?

  Whatever I expect to see, it’s not a brigade of serious-faced policemen, along with some men in scrubs behind them, barging into the wedding. It’s not hard to see where they’re headed.

  Straight for Logan and me.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Armand demands, trying to step in front of the most senior-looking policeman.

  “Are you the groom?” the hard-faced policeman asks.

  Armand’s face registers confusion but he doesn’t answer. Apparently he doesn’t need to.

  Because rounding the corner is Adam Archer.

  “No,” Adam stands arrogantly and points to Logan. “That’s him. That’s the man you’re here to arrest.”

  Sixteen

  Daphne

  “What?” I screech just as Logan finally drops me to the ground and steps in front of me, shielding me from Adam.

  “What’s this about, Archer? You here to finally have it out with me like a man?” Logan sneers, looking around at the huge posse Adam brought with him. “Or like always, are you getting others to do your bullying for you. Can’t damage that manicure, can you?”

  Adam’s face goes red and the hand he has pointed at Logan starts to shake a little, but he just repeats, “There he is. Arrest him.”

  “On what grounds?” Armand demands, trying to get in front of the policeman again.

  “We have a warrant for his arrest,” Adam crows.

  “On. What. Grounds?” Armand repeats, looking like he’s barely keeping his temper, even though during every interaction I’ve ever had with him, he seemed like the most even-tempered man, almost lackadaisical in his approach to serious life.

  “On the grounds that he’s a dangerous psycho,” Adam says. “He’s attacked me and is a mentally unstable public threat. He walks around in a serial killer mask, for gods’ sake. He’s already violated one restraining order and I have multiple witnesses who heard him threaten my life. The fact that he’s gone this long unpunished only highlights the corruption in the underbelly of this city.”

  The way he’s going on, it’s like he’s trying out a run for mayor. But he’s not nearly finished. “So it is the opinion of the great city of New Olympus that he be remanded into the custody of the state for a period of observation for criminal psychosis.”

  And that’s when the camera flashes start to go off.

  Son of a— He brought the media, because of course he did.

  I should have known he was grandstanding for an audience. And certainly not for our wedding party, all of whom obviously side with us. No, he’s speechifying for a much bigger crowd. Maybe even using this as his launching point for a political bid, going on about corruption at a wedding where the Ubelis are present, when everyone knows that they are the King and Queen of all Underworld activity on the East Coast.

  Destroying Logan’s reputation in the meantime by using him as a scapegoat? Now I know this is classic Adam. This is how he works. Who he is.

  I feel Logan tense in front of me and my arm shoots out to restrain him. “He’s baiting you,” I hiss. “If you beat his face in like you want, you’ll just be giving him everything he wants. Please, babe.”

  I intertwine my fingers with his. “Not today. We won’t give him what he wants today.”

  Logan swallows hard, really hard, but he gives me an almost imperceptible nod.

  And he manages it, too.

  The policeman and medical staff get to us and begin reaching for Logan.

  “I’ll come quietly,” Logan says, keeping his voice measured and calm. “There’s no need for a scene.”

  But it’s as if he didn’t even say a word. I’m just about to let go of his hand when I’m suddenly grabbed by my left arm and yanked sharply away. My arm is wrenched in such a way that I can’t help crying out in pain.

  And that, apparently, is Logan’s breaking point.

  His head snaps my direction. “Leave her be.”

  But the asshole cop, who I now realize must be working in cahoots with Adam, just chuckles in Logan’s face and then spits at his feet, at the perfect angle so the cameras can’t catch it.

  “Boy, where you’re going, you ain’t gonna have no say about what happens to Little Miss here back home. Cuff ‘im, men.”

  Two other men approach with cuffs and that’s when all hell breaks loose.

  Logan lets out a roar and, standing almost a foot taller than all the other men around him, he starts to fight. At least that’s what it looks like from outside the circle that starts to grow around him.

  “Logan!” I scream, but I don’t know if he can hear anything above the uproar.

  Men in uniform start to fly backwards but almost immediately another takes their place.

  I start forward but I’m grabbed on both sides. “Let me go,” I shout but Armand at my left and Cora at my right refuse to let me go. And then it’s the Ubeli’s men in black dragging me backwards away from the fray.

  “Logan wouldn’t want you anywhere near that,” Armand shouts in my ear and that’s the only thing that makes me back away. Which unfortunately only gives me a better view of what’s happening to Logan because we head a little ways up the hill and now I can see down on the unfolding tableau.

  There must be twenty men surrounding Logan and he’s swinging and brawling like an enraged animal. He’s past reason. That man threatened me and I know, I know that all Logan could see in that moment was that he wouldn’t be able to protect me if they succeeded in taking him away from my side.

  “Stop it, please you have to stop them!” I cry, slumping to my knees, my beautiful wedding dress all but ruined by the wet grass outside the tarped area.

  But I can only look on in horror as the cops finally get Logan face down on the ground. Only barely, by the looks of it, and it’s taking several men to restrain him there. And then one of the men in scrubs approaches, something in his hand I can’t make out.

  Until he raises it to Logan’s n
eck and with a sickening realization, I realize exactly what it is.

  A syringe.

  He presses it to Logan’s neck and within thirty seconds, my big, beautiful, virile brand new husband is passed out, sedated like a large, dangerous animal on the floor. Of his own wedding.

  And the news cameras were rolling the whole time, capturing the entire thing.

  Seventeen

  Daphne

  Logan had no chance. Not with the video from the wedding. Not just on all the news stations playing 24/7, but also all over the internet.

  It would have gone better for Logan if he wasn’t so damn strong. But he just kept knocking them down. Even I haven’t been able to avoid the videos. I was there and they make it look so much more dramatic, maybe because of the filters and the cinematic music always layered on top—

  And the fact that an ambulance had to be called for four of the policeman didn’t help his case—even though I know for a fact that none of those supposed ‘terrible injuries’ actually lead to anyone needing to be taken to the hospital and that it was likely all just more fanfare and showcasing by Adam to win points in the press.

  “It’s a mess,” I confess to Armand, face in my hands.

  “It’s bullshit is what it is.” Armand stands and paces back and forth in my beautifully restored Thornhill living room. Every day I’m living in the reminder of Logan’s love and every day it pierces all the deeper that he’s not here with me to enjoy it.

  We should be on our honeymoon right now, and instead, he’s locked away in some cold, padded cell at Maniae Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

  Just, what the fuck, world? Why can’t we get a damn break? Incurable cancer wasn’t enough? Separating us for almost a decade? Fighting past misunderstandings and insecurities and finally finding our way to each other, having the wedding of our dreams only for it to be stolen away before we even get to our wedding night?

  I officially give up on fairness in the universe.

  Armand is feeling less despair and more righteous indignation.

  “Cora wants to get involved. She and Marcus have wanted to clean up that corrupt police force for years.”