Page 76 of False God

“Sorry, I just—” He spots me sitting on the couch. Stares for a few seconds, smiles, then holds up his arm. “Which one?”

Fran surveys the options. One silver, one striped, one skinny, and a pink one with a subtle white pattern I can’t see from here.

“Pink,” she decides.

“Really?”

“Really. Real men wear pink. Now, go check on Tripp. He’s never been on time for anything in his life, but today, that changes.”

“Tripp is up. He’s eating breakfast. We’ll all be there on time.”

It seems like Cal is careful not to look in my direction before Fran closes the door in his face, but it might be my imagination.

Aside from the elevator reflection, I haven’t surveyed my appearance, but I’m pretty sure I currently look … like I was having sex all night.

I recall Bridget’s words on the plane—I think it would be good for Cal to see you with someone else—and pray that she’s right. I don’t blame Cal—at all—for how our relationship ended. My own insecurities were at fault. He would have signed a prenup if I’d asked. He wasn’t with me just for the money. In many ways, he was a safe bet, and that didn’t change in one evening. It just made me realize I didn’twanta safe bet. If no one could ignore my immense wealth, I wanted to experience what it was like to be with a guy who made me feel more than simply safe.

Cal never would have challenged me to race him. He fretted over me even stepping on the track when we went to Monaco forJasper’s twenty-first. And our relationship was more romantic than passionate or physical. I never once felt like I woulddieif he stopped touching me, which was the state I spent most of last night and the start of this morning in. I hadn’t known that desperate level of desire existed.

I sink a little lower on the couch once it’s all girls again, poking at the scone on my plate. “Do you think he knows?”

“That Britain’s most eligible bachelor was in your bed last night? Definitely,” Bridget says from my right, not looking up from the magazine she grabbed from somewhere and is now flipping through.

I scoff. “He’s not Britain’s most eligible bachelor.” Then glance at Chloe, the resident expert on England. “Is he?”

Her shrug is not exactly comforting. “I mean …”

Bridget taps the magazine she’s reading. “It says it right here.Charles Marlborough, the eighth Duke of Manchester and Britain’s most eligible bachelor, was seen leaving exclusive gentlemen’s club The Ivy House with respected barrister Henry Sutherland.”

“That’s a tabloid.”

“So? Do you think he’s met the royal family?”

I roll my eyes. “Can we stop talking about Charlie, please? It was a fun night. It’s over. It’s Chloe’s wedding day. We’re leaving for Saint-Tropez tomorrow. After today, I’ll probably never see him again.”

That last sentence isn’t as reassuring as I’d like it to be. More … melancholy.

Fran walks over to where Bridget and I are sitting. Flashes her phone screen at us. “Which hairstyle should I do? This one or”—she swipes to a new photo—“this one?”

Chloe’s mom arrives right as Gwen’s makeup gets finished. She starts crying as soon as she sees Chloe and again when the bridesmaid dresses my mom designed are revealed.

I’ve never really considered what my wedding day would look like. It’s always felt far off, even when Cal mentioned marriage. But as I watch my best friend enjoy hers, it’s easier to imagine than I thought it would be.

I can see Fran and Bridget fussing over me the same way they’re doing with Chloe right now. Collins, my college roommate, would be here too. Wren and Rory. Aunt Hannah. Gigi. And I doubt my mom would be sobbing like Mrs. Beaumont, but I think she’d probably dab at her eyes when she saw me in my dress. I’ve always known I’d ask if I could wear hers. My dad would definitely cry before we started down the aisle, and I’d probably make a joke about how if anything went wrong, we would get it right at my second wedding.

The only part I can’t picture clearly is the groom.

18

Weddings aren’t my favorite. They’re actually myleastfavorite type of societal event, typically filled with sentimentality and stiffness. I’d rather sit through multiple matches at Wimbledon in the baking sun than witness a ceremony in a cool church.

I fiddle with the thin edge of the paper program that was handed out to all the guests as they entered the stone chapel, attempting to hide my impatience even though no one’s being subtle about staring at me.

It took me ten minutes to make it from the doors to a seat in one of the pews. Fig is serving as one of Theo’s groomsmen, so I’m sitting alone.

I read through the program listing the order of the ceremony and the members of the wedding party for a tenth time—my eyes lingering onElizabeth Kensingtonfor a few seconds longer than the other names.

“Hello, Charles.”

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