Page 285 of The Billionaires

“But in London,” Mom says.

I shrug. “I figured this St. George's would be easier to book on short notice. Or did you want to fly today?”

Mom shakes her head. “Whatever makes you happy.”

“Actually, a quick, nondescript wedding would make me happy,” I say. “The kind they have in Vegas or at City Hall.”

“If you did that, you wouldn’t be able to do a historical romance theme,” Mom says.

I purse my lips. “We could’ve roleplayed. In my romances, they have quick weddings all the time. If the heroine is preggers, for example, the hero just gets a Special License from the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

I’ve done some research on this, and in the real world, said license was granted infrequently and not lightly—in contrast to my books, where getting the license isn’t all that special.

“So it’s the groom who wants it to be fancy?” Grandma asks. “That’s not how it worked in my day.”

“Jane does too,” Mary says conspiratorially. “She just wants us to think she’s above such things.”

The limo stops at that moment, which is good, because I don’t have a witty retort to that statement.

“Don’t leave the car,” I tell everyone as they reach for the doors. “We need to wait for security.”

“Security?” Grandma looks out the window, her expression concerned.

I sigh. “The tabloids are interested in our… I mean, Adrian’s wedding. There will be paparazzi outside the church and the hotel where the reception will take place.”

“Oh.” Grandma grins. “How exciting.”

I’m not excited at all. I’m not sure why, but I feel icky knowing that Adrian actually wants those photos so that the whole world knows about the wedding. The security is just for appearances’ sake. The paparazzi will still snap a bunch of photos of the both of us. In fact, the last time Adrian and I had a tête-à-tête unrelated to the weather, he told me that his security team discovered that some so-called journalists have infiltrated the catering staff and will pose as waiters and the like so that they can later report on the wedding.

The limo door opens, and I’m blinded by the flashes of the cameras as the security team ushers us down a red carpet and into the church.

Someone covers my face with a veil, so my visibility becomes limited.

“I’ll walk you,” Mom says solemnly, as if reading my mind.

We walk into the church’s main hall. The place is packed to the brim, but the guests are hard to discern behind the veil, though I think I recognize the city mayor, a few famous actors, and even the billionaire who was in the newspapers recently because he plans to take a trip to the moon.

Yep. This is the modern version of the ton.

A live orchestra starts playing “Here Comes the Bride.”

My heartbeat skyrockets.

The official name of this tune is “Bridal Chorus,” and it’s from an opera called Lohengrin by Richard Wagner (who had the dubious honor of being one of Hitler’s favorite composers). It was played during the wedding of Queen Victoria’s daughter (also Victoria) and has been associated with weddings ever since—despite the fact that, in the opera, it was sung as the couple entered the bridal chamber, not as the bride (Elsa—without any snow-related powers) walked down the aisle. It’s also worth mentioning that in said opera, when separated from her new husband, Elsa dies of grief.

So, yeah. I’m not sure why everyone uses this tune given the associations, but in my case, it does seem fitting.

I know ahead of time that Adrian and I will get divorced, so I’d better shield my heart lest I end up like poor Elsa.

CHAPTER 30

ADRIAN

Fuck me. Even with the veil obscuring her features, Jane is beautifully radiant as she majestically floats down the aisle.

My breathing speeds up—and I have to remind myself for the umpteenth time that this isn’t real.

It’s just a show for the upcoming hearing.

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