Page 72 of Seizing Control: Part One

Fingers shaking as I battle the urge to run, I awkwardly ruche up the full skirt, so I won’t dirty the bottom hem and scan their faces for clues as to their thoughts. When Crystal’s eyes start to shine and her forehead crinkles, I begin to second guess my choice. The gorgeous strap-less ballgown with the full skirt and the veil with a small train is the least froufrou dress out of the options provided, and still, it’s decadence is adding to my growing foreboding that this wedding is morphing into something completely out of proportion with the occasion.

This is an arranged marriage.

A way to escape Hugh St. James and the Maddison clan.

Even if my heart did execute a little somersault at the thought of Slash seeing me in this dress.

“Oh, yes... yes. This is the. One,” Nadia exclaims. She pirouettes, already tipsy from the champagne that Crystal has been plying us with. “Isn’t it, Mumma C?”

“I have other options,” the modiste interjects.

As the only male present, Toker should feel outnumbered, but he doesn’t hesitate to offer his opinion. “I don’t think we need to try any of the other ones.” He slides his phone into the inner pocket of his cut, then ambles closer to me. The other women appear to hold their breath as his dirty bike boots venture near the delicate lace edging the full skirt. Their reaction makes hysterical laughter bubble in my throat. I’m on the cusp of losing control when my cousin rips the breath out of my lungs with his murmured statement, “Put a smile on your face and choose this one—makes you look like a duchess.”

“Benny—”

“I’ve gotta get goin’, lil cuz,” he drawls, deliberately interrupting my looming nervous breakdown. “Club business. Just know, I expect this dress to make an appearance on Saturday.”

Despite Nadia and Toker’s positive reactions, I’m not sold.

Crystal continues to remain silent as my cousin takes his leave.

The designer has her assistant refill the champagne glasses as she ushers me back into the guest room. All the fussing would be funny in any other circumstance since she definitely gives my fashion-loving self a run for my money. Her excitement is palpable as she helps me into the next dress.

“With your bust and hip ratio, a mermaid skirt will balance you out. The silhouette created will be breathtaking.”

We repeat the same procedure a dozen times.

New dress. A catwalk and a twirl. Nadia’s excitement. Crystal’s silence. Rinse and repeat.

All the while, I’m quiet, shooting the first dress fleeting looks during each change. Toker’s comment echoes in my mind, the truth of it flooding my veins even as I bury my head in the sand. Plonking down on the end of the bed once the designer’s assistant has wheeled her rack out of the guest room and they’ve left me to get dressed in my original clothes, I let the chemise I’m holding slip through my fingers.

The garment drops to the floor.

A pile of silk and defeat.

Spread neatly over the bed next to me, my trouser suit mocks my situation.

I got dressed with the intention of seeing Zeke this morning.

I ended up meeting the girl who stepped into my shoes during our separation to help him cope with our mutual loss. My preconceived notions of Gabriella Mitchell were smashed to pieces in one conversation. Her quiet understanding ramped my guilt to fever pitch, and the regret I’ve been attempting to avoid refuses to offer me amnesty.

The purple tulip tattoo was his way of mourning our lost baby.

Yet, I lashed out at him when I saw it—told him to leave me over a presumption.

I was so wrong.

Cowardly.

Because my initial gut reaction all those months ago was right.

Zeke left Perth to protect me.

He trusted me to know better, to lean into our lifelong connection, to keep my faith in him.

I fell in love with his best friend instead.

More to the point, I made room in my heart for another man—the same man Zeke has depended upon his entire life. Slash might believe he can push his way past my barriers and evict Zeke from my affections. His actions in the chapel last night prove that I will need to remain on alert, lest I give him the wrong impression. My body is not on board with my head, and my heart is off doing its own thing.

---