I swallowed hard, uncertain of how to navigate the brewing storm that was angry Roman. Even after five years of friendship-and a few days of whatever this complicated situation was-my instincts were still on high alert.
Best friends with benefits? Friends with complications? I had no idea what label to attach to us anymore.
So, I inched closer, looping my arm through his and resting my head gently against his shoulder.
“Please don’t get upset. I’m not sure how to handle this,” I murmured, trying to lighten the mood.
He smiled, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly, a flicker of warmth breaking through his tension.
I chuckled at the nickname he had coined for the version of himself that was currently battling his emotions. “So, is it working? Are you still angry?”
He hesitated, his gaze drifting to some point across the room, lost in thought.
With a heavy sigh, the remnants of his earlier fury resurfaced. “You don’t understand, Savannah…”
“Then make me understand,” I urged softly, my voice almost a whisper. “That’s what friends do, right? Even if they’re a bit… complicated?”
He let out a small laugh, a deep, low sound that rumbled through him, shaking his head as if he were trying to dispel the chaos swirling between us.
“My family isn’t exactly your typical family, Sav,” he said, a hint of bitterness creeping into his tone.
I smirked playfully, “Are you from a bloodline of vampires?”
His eyes darkened, and he replied with surprising intensity, “I’d take that over what I have any day.”
I opened my mouth to make another joke, but just then, his phone buzzed insistently. He glanced at the screen, and in that fleeting moment, his expression shifted-just enough for me to realize it was probably a message from them. His family.
Without another word, he stood up abruptly. “Give me a minute. I have to take this.”
He moved through the crowd with an effortless grace, as though he were walking toward a confrontation he had been dreading for some time.
From the corner of my eye, I caught Chloe watching me again, a slow, wicked smile curling on her lips, and I felt a prickle of unease dance up my spine. I wasn’t sure whether it was her smile or the unanswered questions swirling in my mind, but a deep-seated certainty settled in my gut: whatever was coming next would change everything.
**Wedding Rehearsal (The Next Day)**
I found myself positioned towards the back of the room, clutching a delicate bouquet of ivory silk roses that felt both foreign and familiar in my hands. The petals were soft, almost like the whispers of secrets yet to be shared.
With a sharp clap, the officiant commanded our attention. “Alright, let’s begin again. Bridesmaids and groomsmen, please pair up!” His voice echoed through the hall, a mix of authority and warmth that made everyone straighten up.
Up front, Dean stood with a broad grin plastered across his face, his eyes flickering in my direction just often enough to remind me of that moment-the proposal that had caught me off guard, a secret shared in the shadows. It was a reminder that sent a thrill down my spine, both exhilarating and terrifying.
Beside him, Henry, his best man, stood like a loyal pup, ready to follow Dean’s lead without question. Their camaraderie was palpable, a bond forged through years of friendship and mischief.
And then, there was Roman. He sat confidently next to my dad, as if he owned the entire venue. His presence was unexpected; he wasn’t part of the wedding party, nor had he been invited. Yet, in his dark suit, he blended seamlessly into the scene, as if he were the centerpiece of this gathering.
His gaze locked onto mine, and a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. My heart raced at the sight, and I couldn’t help but smile back, my excitement bubbling over. I quickly turned my attention forward, determined not to stumble in front of the gathering crowd.
As if on autopilot, my feet carried me to my designated spot. The soft strains of romantic music floated through the air, wrapping around us like a gentle embrace. The rhythmic click of heels and the shuffle of polished shoes created a symphony of anticipation in the spacious hall.
The fragrance of roses mingled with the scent of lemon oil, the pews gleaming under the grand vaulted ceiling, each glint a testament to the care taken in preparing for this day.
“My goodness,” the officiant exclaimed, waving his hands toward the aisle. “Bridesmaids and groomsmen, adjust your lines. Pair up! And let’s aim for grace, not speed!”
Laughter rippled through the group, dissolving the tension that had settled over us like a thin fog.
In the front pew, family members watched us with a tapestry of emotions-some were misty-eyed, while others were distracted, checking their phones as if the world outside could distract them from this moment.
As I reached the front, I stole another glance at Roman. His eyes were fixed on me, absorbing every detail as if I were a work of art. My heart raced under the weight of his gaze, each breath I took feeling like a performance meant for his eyes alone.
He mouthed something softly, “You look beautiful,” and then, as if capturing a moment in time, he snapped a picture from his seat. I couldn’t help but pose slightly, a playful grin spreading across my face.
When my mom leaned in to catch a glimpse of the photo, pride radiated from Roman’s expression, and I felt a blush creep across my cheeks, as intense as a teenager’s first crush.
Dressed in a simple cream-colored, off-shoulder dress that hugged my figure just above the knee, I felt exposed yet empowered under Roman’s gaze. It was as if he could see right through the fabric and into my soul.
The rehearsal began to blur around me. The officiant’s voice faded into a soft hum, a distant echo in my mind. Alyssa’s laughter rang out at something my mother said, and a groomsman fumbled his cue, but none of it mattered. My focus remained anchored on the man in the front row, whose eyes roamed down my body slowly-an intense exploration that made my skin tingle.
I snapped back to reality when the officiant called me up. Chloe stood at the top of the aisle, bouquet in hand. It wasn’t the extravagant arrangement she would carry on the big day, but rather a modest cluster of ivory roses tied with a simple ribbon.
Her dress was a flowing white sundress, a far cry from the elaborate wedding gown she had chosen for the ceremony.
At the altar, her fiancé waited, hands clasped in front of him, his stance betraying a mix of nervousness and eager anticipation.
My mind drifted back to yesterday’s barbecue, a whirlwind of laughter and friendly banter. It was strange to think that Chloe, who had publicly declared me her enemy just days ago, still insisted on having me as her maid of honor.
After a brief run-through of vows and a mock exchange of rings-two simple silver bands borrowed for the occasion-it was finally time for the informal part of the evening: the rehearsal dinner.
The atmosphere shifted dramatically. High heels were kicked off, jackets were discarded, and the sound of lively conversations filled the air like a vibrant melody.
The restaurant was the kind of place that didn’t need to flaunt its exclusivity; every polished surface and the soft notes of jazz spilling from hidden speakers spoke volumes about its elegance.
The banquet hall was a vision of elegance, every detail meticulously arranged. Crisp white linen adorned the tables, its silky texture inviting to the touch, while heavy silver cutlery gleamed under the soft glow of the chandeliers. Bone china plates, edged with delicate gold, awaited the sumptuous feast that was about to unfold.
In this refined atmosphere, the waiters moved gracefully, clad in black waistcoats and white gloves, as if they were part of an intricate ballet. They glided between the tables, each carrying silver trays laden with shimmering champagne flutes and polished wine glasses, their movements practiced and fluid.
As the first course was served, tiny porcelain bowls of lobster bisque appeared, steam rising from them in fragrant spirals, filling the room with an intoxicating aroma that mingled with the warmth of the evening. The scent of seared filet mignon wafted through the air, accompanied by fresh herbs and a hint of vanilla bean from the dessert station tucked away at the far end of the hall. My senses were overwhelmed by the opulence of it all.
Just as I began to savor the moment, the best man, Henry, stood to deliver his speech. I recognized him as one of Dean’s college buddies, a familiar face from the past. Oddly enough, I couldn’t help but notice that the shirt he wore seemed to be a hand-me-down from Dean himself, a relic of their shared history.
With a confident grin, Henry lifted his champagne glass, his expression suggesting he felt more like a comedian at a roast than a speaker at a rehearsal dinner. “Well,” he began, stretching the word out, causing some guests to shift uncomfortably in their seats. “I’ve known Dean for quite a while now, and during that time, I’ve witnessed him make some… interesting choices.”
I felt tension radiating from Dean, his eyes shooting daggers at Henry, as if he were aware of some unspoken truth that the rest of us were oblivious to. A few polite chuckles rippled through the crowd, but I could feel the unease in the air. I rolled my eyes, my gaze drifting upward to the ornate crystal chandeliers that sparkled above, momentarily seeking refuge from the awkwardness unfolding before me. Henry and I had never quite seen eye to eye, even back in the college days.
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.