Page 70 of Vengeful Lies

“My mother is always punctual. In fact, she usually arrives in advance.” He tries to hide the smile as the blood drains from my face.

“It’s not funny,” I hiss under my breath. “You could’ve given me a heads-up.”

The older woman guides us through the large space where multiple gorgeous dresses are on display. There’s no one elsehere except for a receptionist who smiles at us. When we’re taken into the second room, which is smaller but far more grandly decorated, I spot Rya. She’s sitting on a pink sofa, holding a glass of champagne while she rapidly types on her phone one-handed. A bottle of bubbly sits on the side table next to her very expensive handbag.

She looks up and smiles as we enter. “You made it.” She stands and says, “Eli called and said you felt sick. Do you feel better now?” She places her hand against my forehead, and I instinctively step back at the touch before realizing I’m doing it.

“S-sorry,” I stutter.

“Don’t be.” She gives me an understanding look. I don’t think I’ve ever had someone actually try to take my temperature, and it’s unnerving how obvious I just made it. I don’t care what people think about me, but it’s becoming more apparent that I’ve been cast in a role I’m sadly unequipped for.

“I hope you weren’t waiting too long,” I finally say.

“Not at all. It gave me time to reply to some emails. Lord forbid a law firm run on its own. There would be no fun in that.” She chuckles.

“Don’t let Pops hear you say that,” Eli jokes. She smiles as she presses a kiss to his cheek.

“Please. Your father still comes in with bloody cuffs and thinks I don’t notice.”

The woman beside us shifts uncomfortably at that comment, and I try my hardest not to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. I must truly be out of my mind, marrying into a mafia family.

“Now, shoo. You shouldn’t be here. It should just be us girls,” Rya says to Eli, hands on her hips.

I reach out frantically and grab his wrist. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “No, I want him here,” I’m quick to say. For some reason, being alone with Rya Monti terrifies me. Not becauseI’m intimidated by her. Okay, maybe I am a little. But because I feel too guilty for lying to her, she’s showing me what having an actual mother might be like. I find it strange that had she been my mother growing up she wouldn’t have thought twice about my fixation on guns or my killer instinct. It might’ve been embraced, instead of scorned, and maybe I wouldn’t have been abandoned by my own mother.

Eli smirks and slides his hand around my waist. Okay, now the fucker is pushing his boundaries.

“You don’t want it to be a surprise?” he asks.

“No. I want to wear what you like. It’s your special day, too,” I reply, careful not to glare him to death or push his hand away from me. Each time he touches me now, I hate that I like it more and more. I inwardly remind myself that I hate this man. “So yes, I’d like it if you stayed.”

“I’ll stay, then.” He leans, in brushing his lips over my neck. I know we’re being watched, so I close my eyes briefly to make it believable.

Rya seems pleased with the exchange, and I realize that Eli probably never had intentions of leaving. After all, he is not a man of tradition, even if his family has some whack old-school rules.

“Would you like a glass of champagne?” Rya offers. “Might help with the nerves.”

“Yes.” I all but scoop the glass out of her hand and down half of it. I’m not a big drinker, but I need some liquid courage to get through today.

The sales associate seems affronted by my desperate need for booze but walks me to the dressing room and asks, “Do you have any idea of what style you might like?”

“None whatsoever,” I deadpan.

“Perfect. Then I’ll bring a variety of choices out.”

Fan-fucking-tastic.

CHAPTER 36

Jewel

I’m two drinks in and rocking a nice buzz. All the dresses are tight. Some are poofy, and others look like layers of tablecloths were draped on top of me.

They look great, sure. But every time I put another one on, I’m sucked deeper into a well of anxiety. I don’t get anxious, dammit. But trying on wedding dresses is freaking me the fuck out.

I’ve listened in on some of the casual conversation between Eli and Rya. They’re talking about the wedding planning. I’m grateful to be as far away from that bullshit as possible. Eli is more intelligent than to ask my opinion on cutlery for a wedding I don’t want any part in.

I step out of the changing room, now wearing the fourth dress. Eli looks up at me through his eyelashes with an expression of wanting to fuck me in every dress I walk out in. When I spin to look at myself in the mirror, I feel like I can’t breathe. Maybe she tightened this one too much?

---