The day has been a rollercoaster of emotions, and I feel like I have whiplash. I went from wanting to be with Leon to hating him, from wanting to end things with Sebastian to becoming a partner at Wayde Bank.
This morning, I’d been willing to take a chance on real passion and love by giving up on my deal with Sebastian, and now I’m looking into chasing my career and turning over two years of my life. Two years during which time I could have met a man and moved towards starting a family. Two years during which time I could still meet the man of my dreams—but be unable to go after him because of my deal with Sebastian.
Am I willing to face that possibility? Am I willing to not feel the way I did waking up in Leon’s arms this morning for another two years, at least?
“Well?” Sebastian asks, annoyance creeping into his voice. “Do you have a decision? I have other things to do today, and—”
“Yes.”
The word is out before I can second-guess it. Before I can hesitate and change my mind.
“Yes?” Sebastian clarifies. “You accept?”
Why chase after what-ifs when a sure thing is right in front of me? Why wait around for a man who may or may not appear when I could make my lifelong career dream come true now? Love isn’t the only way to find happiness. For the next two years, I can find fulfillment in my work. I can find fulfillment in a job well done. And, for the next two years, I can do my utmost to pretend last night with Leon never happened.
I take a deep breath, place a fox-clawed fist on my hip, and nod my head. “I accept.”
Chapter 12
Grace
Six Weeks Later: August
Having the first time Myla has ever been in Sebastian’s penthouse also be on the day of our wedding is clearly a mistake. I’m standing in front of a full-length mirror in the bedroom in nothing but a plain white slip and a garter, waiting for Myla to get my wedding dress from the closet.
“Did you get lost?” I call, nervously tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
A hairdresser came to the penthouse this morning and styled both of us. Mine is a loose bun gathered at the base of my neck, strands of wavy hair effortlessly tucked into the knot, and finished with a small branch of baby’s breath. It’s beautiful, but for my actual wedding, I’d want my hair to be down, tumbling over my shoulders in long beachy waves. Everything about this fake wedding is the exact opposite of what I’d want, really. Doing that helps it feel like I’m not ruining the wedding I one day hope to have with this sham one.
Myla stumbles out of the closet with the garment bag thrown over her shoulder. “I actually did. That closet is huge. And it’s all yours?”
I nod. “All mine.”
“I’m green with envy,” she says. “I mean, you’ve seen my shoebox of an apartment. You know what I’m working with.”
“It’s a fine apartment,” I argue.
She shrugs. “I guess, but this? This is heaven.”
Part of the reason I didn’t want to show Myla the penthouse is because I knew she’d react this way. Myla has always been a fan of anything shiny and new, and Sebastian’s penthouse is nothing if not both of those things. When I go to her apartment and complain about living with Sebastian and the awkward tension always thick in the air, it’s easier for her to sympathize with me when she doesn’t picture me sleeping in a four-poster bed with a private Jacuzzi tub in the next room over, and sliding glass doors that open onto a private balcony. But now that she has seen my living arrangement, I’m afraid she’ll never take me seriously again.
“Well, maybe not heaven,” she says, probably noticing the expression on my face. “Maybe purgatory. That place is not quite heaven, not quite hell, right? A medium place?”
I shrug. “I’m not Catholic.”
“Either way,” she says, laying the garment bag out on the bed and unzipping it. “If you have to deal with Sebastian Wayde, at least you get to deal with him from the comfort of the nicest bedroom I’ve ever seen in my life.”
I nod and smile, wishing I could be as upbeat about all of it as Myla is. This isn’t my real wedding, but she’s been texting me every day for the last week with a wedding countdown. She even threw me a bachelorette party last weekend. Or, at least, she tried to. It was going to be a classic Myla and Grace romantic comedy snack food fest, but I couldn’t eat more than a handful of licorice without feeling nauseous. I ended up spending the evening watching two people fall in love from the fetal position with a two-liter of lemon-lime soda so I wouldn’t hurl.
Myla called it nerves. If that’s the case, I’ve had nerves for the last week. I’ve been unsteadied and nauseous for days, and unable to think about anything but my upcoming nuptials.
“This dress is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Myla says, pulling the dress free of the bag and holding it up. “No, scratch that. This dress is the most beautiful person, place, or thing I’ve ever seen. It is the most beautiful noun.”
“Let me see it,” I say, turning away from the mirror.
She hugs it to her chest. “I deserve one more minute with it alone, Grace. You’ve already seen it.”
“I actually haven’t yet.”
Myla turns to me, eyes wide. “You haven’t seen your own wedding dress?”
I shake my head. “I just went to the designer, stood nearly naked while they measured every inch of my body, and then let them do their thing. It isn’t my real wedding, so why should I care?”
“Oh, yeah,” Myla says with an awkward laugh. “I keep forgetting this isn’t real. It feels real.”
“Not to me.”
Her lips twist to the side. She is speechless for maybe the first time in her life, and I use the opportunity to pluck the dress from her hand and hold it up to myself. I turn back to the mirror and try to feel something. Anything.
The dress is a vintage dream. It has a high, sheer neck with detailed geometric ribbing across the short sleeves and down to the opaque sweetheart neckline. The bodice is fitted through the midsection, but the bottom of the dress is layer upon layer of gauzy white material that makes me feel like a shower loofah.
“Do you like it?” Myla asks, peering over my shoulder.
With her freshly dyed red hair, black winged eyeliner, and maroon lipstick, she looks like the devil over my shoulder. Though, she does look a little softer than normal. The hairdresser put soft waves in her short hair with a straight iron.
“I guess,” I shrug. “It’s fine.”
Myla takes it back from my hands and unzips the back. “Put it on. That will help.”
I raise my arms over my head as Myla wrestles the dress above my head, but just before she pulls it down, she pauses.
“Is that the slip you’re wearing?”
I groan. “Not a real wedding, Myla. Sebastian will never see it. Put the dress on.”
Mercifully, she listens to me and slides the dress into place. We spend the next few minutes tugging on the fabric, adjusting the sleeves around my arms, and fixing the poufy layers of the bottom. Then, Myla moves to my side and grabs the zipper.
“We don’t need to zip it. I’m going to take it right back off, anyway. The ceremony isn’t for two hours.”
“I want to see what you’ll look like all put together,” she insists. She tugs on the zipper, and it glides easily up the fabric until, suddenly, it wrenches to a stop.
Myla gives me an awkward smile and tugs again. Nothing.
“Is it stuck?” I ask, twisting to look at my side.
Myla waves me away, telling me not to slouch, and checks the zipper.
“I don’t think so.”
She tries a third time, and once again, the zipper refuses to pull the two flaps of fabric together.
“I think it might be too small,” she says, standing back, one hand under her chin in thought.
I look down, and it certainly looks too small. Where the fabric should be flush together, ready to be zipped, there is a two-inch wide gap where I can see the pale skin of my side.
“The designer is world-renowned. He measured my entire midsection three times in every conceivable configuration.”
She bites her lip. “He must have measured wrong.”
I grab the zipper and tug even though I know it won’t do any good. The dress refuses to budge.
“Did you eat a lot of carbs last night?” Myla asks. “Remember, I told you to stick to fruits and vegetables. Carbs make you bloat.”
I don’t look at her and try the zipper again. “It has to fit.”
“What did you eat for dinner?” she asks again.
I sigh. “An everything bagel with strawberry cream cheese.”
“A bagel! Grace, that is carb city,” Myla shouts, pushing my shoulder. Then, she appears over my shoulder in the mirror again, her nose wrinkled. “Also, an everything bagel with strawberry cream cheese? Gross.”
“It sounded good at the time.” I roll my eyes. “Besides, it wouldn’t give me two inches of bloat. This is clearly an issue with the dress.”
“Can you call the designer?” she asks.
My stomach turns, and I ignore it, dismissing it as stress. “Yeah, but I’m not sure what he can do now. The wedding is today.”
Myla pulls down the zipper and dives under my dress—modesty be damned—lifting the poufy abomination over my head. “Maybe they’ll have another one you can wear or some trick of the trade or something. I don’t know, but we can’t let you walk down that aisle with your ribs showing. Real wedding or not, it’s embarrassing.”
Dread settles in my stomach like a boulder, and I take a few deep, calming breaths to try and dispel it.
“Thanks for explaining it to me,” I say sarcastically, spitting out a mouthful of tulle. “I thought maybe it would be fine if I wandered into my wedding with my dress unzipped.”
“Don’t take it out on me,” Myla fires back, pulling the dress over my head and laying it down on the bed, smoothing out the material like the world will end if there is even one wrinkle. “I’m not the one who ate a garlic and strawberry carb fest the night before my wedding.”
I open my mouth to remind her I’ve watched her dump a bag of chocolate chips into a tub of cream cheese and eat it with a spoon, so she’s the last person who should be giving me dietary advice, but all that comes out is a tiny burp. Myla raises an eyebrow at me and laughs, but I instantly break out in a cold sweat and sprint for the bathroom.
“Grace?” Myla runs in after me, but I barely notice her as I dive to my knees, throw open the toilet, and hurl.
Myla curses and moves behind me to grab the few strands of my hair that have slipped free of the updo. She pats my back.
“That’s one way to fit into your dress.”
If I wasn’t currently vomiting up both breakfast and lunch, I’d be amused.
When I finish, I slump to the floor and lean my head against the tile wall. Myla dampens a washcloth for me and tells me to carefully clean up around my mouth so I don’t ruin my makeup.
“It doesn’t even matter,” I say, smearing the rag across my mouth, smudging my lipstick. “My makeup will be a mess, my dress won’t fit, and my groom won’t love me.”
“Is that what this is about?” Myla asks, dropping to her knees next to me. “Are you having second thoughts?”
I hear Leon’s voice in my head, asking me if I’m having second thoughts about getting off the train with him. I push the memory of him away like I’ve grown so accustomed to doing over the last six weeks.
“How could I not have second thoughts? This entire situation is insane.”
“That’s true,” Myla says. Then, she bobs her head back and forth, lips pulled to one side skeptically “But you’ve been planning for this. We’ve talked about it countless times these past few weeks. What changed from yesterday to today?”
I hadn’t wanted to tell Myla about how often I’d been getting sick. Partly because it was embarrassing, and partly because I was afraid she’d try to talk me out of marrying Sebastian. But now that the day has arrived, and I can’t keep my lunch down, I want someone to shake my shoulders and ask me what in the hell I’m thinking.
“Remember the bachelorette party last weekend?” I ask.
She groans. “Don’t remind me. What a disaster.”
“I’ve been sick every night since then.”
Myla’s face goes blank. “What? Every day?”
I nod. “Sometimes it’s just nausea, but more and more it’s becoming full-on throwing up. This wedding is killing me.”
Myla stands up and paces to the bathroom door and back again, her hands dancing in front of her like she’s playing an invisible piano.
“And your dress doesn’t fit.”
“Yeah, bringing that up isn’t exactly helping with my stress.”
She paces back and forth again, stopping in front of me, her face paler than I’ve ever seen it.
“And you ate a garlic and strawberry bagel last night.”
“It wasn’t even that bad,” I argue, wondering why she’s talking about the bagel again. “It was all that was left in the kitchen. I’ve been too busy throwing up to worry about how well-stocked the kitchen is.”
“Grace.” Myla drops down to her knees and crawls over to me, placing her hands on my shoulders. “Stop talking.”
I open my mouth to argue, but then I see the look on her face. Myla is more serious than I’ve ever seen her.
“Grace,” she says slowly, taking a deep breath. “Is there any possibility you could be pregnant?”
My first instinct is to laugh or dismiss the question with a flippant wave of my hand. Of course not. Myla knows about my sex drought better than anyone. Before getting engaged to Sebastian, she was constantly dragging me out to weird clubs and pushing me towards any decently handsome man in spitting distance, and then getting mad at me when I didn’t immediately hop in a taxi and go back to their place. The only problem now is, there was a break in the drought.
“Shit.” I’m still counting back the days in my head, trying to remember when and if I had my period, but Myla is on her feet and headed out the door. “Where are you going?”
“Pharmacy,” she calls from the hallway. “Be right back.”
The simple math involved is almost too much for my scrambled brain to handle, but when I finally crunch the numbers, I realize my period is almost four weeks late. Either I skipped an entire month, or… Could it be possible? Am I actually pregnant? No, we used a condom.
We. The simple word brings the man at the center of this question to mind. The man I’ve been desperately trying to repress for the last six weeks. The man who made it abundantly clear he didn’t really care about me.
Leon.
Chapter 13
Grace
Myla must have sprinted to the pharmacy because she walks into the bathroom with a small plastic bag no more than five minutes after she left. I’m in the same position, huddled on the floor in my slip, hands pressed to the floor to keep them from wandering to my stomach. I caught myself stroking the tiny pooch there absentmindedly, and my hands flew off like I was on fire. It’s probably just bloating, anyway. I’m not pregnant. I can’t be pregnant.
Myla stands in the doorway, hand on the knob. “Do you want me to stay?”
“I think I can pee on a stick,” I say, trying to keep my hand from shaking. “But thanks.”
She sighs. “See you in three minutes.”
I’ve seen enough women in movies and television take pregnancy tests to know how it works. And if I mess up, there’s a second one in the box.
I set the test on the counter facedown when I’m done and try not to stare at it while I wash my hands. Adrenaline is pulsing through my body, sending tingles down my spine, and I can’t seem to stop tapping my foot. Myla, to her absolute credit, waits quietly on the other side of the door. Even my absurd best friend knows she needs to give me a little space right now.
While I wait for the endless three minutes to pass, I try to think through the scenari
os. If I am pregnant, I could always tell Sebastian. What better way to sell our romance than throw a baby into the mix? As soon as the thought enters my head, however, I dismiss it. Being with Sebastian is enough of a lie on its own. I can’t do another.
Plus, I wouldn’t be able to hide a baby from my family. They’d want to know who the father was, and then I’d have to tell them about my marriage to Sebastian. Not to mention the child. The lie would have implications on the child’s life. They would never know their true father.
I could tell Leon and Sebastian about the baby and, for the two years of our marriage, work out a split-custody situation. That idea is the most realistic, but still messy. People would ask too many questions.
Plus, the real kicker is that I don’t think Sebastian would ever go for any of it. Honestly, he’d probably consider getting pregnant a breach of our agreement and claim to his mother I cheated on him, hoping she’d feel bad enough for him to give him the company anyway. Though, Elaine Wayde might not be able to believe I could ever cheat on her son. We’ve met several times over the previous six weeks, and she loves me. Sebastian has already said that he worries how his mom will react when we divorce.
I lean back against the wall and drop my head in my hands, repeating three words to myself over and over like a mantra. I’m not pregnant. I’m not pregnant. I’m not pregnant.
The timer on my phone goes off, and I flip the test over quickly, positive I can’t be pregnant. Not after all of the self-actualization I just did. The test, however, is positive about a very different outcome.
“So?” Myla yells through the door. “What’s the verdict?”
I yank open the bathroom door and shove the test into her hands, blowing past her to begin pacing around the room.
I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant.
Myla curses. “What are you going to do?”
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