Page 92 of No Vow Broken

When he returned, Amanda was with him. She stood in the hallway looking as if she might collapse. Slash had a hand under her elbow and walked her into our suite, insisting she sit onto the couch. It was clear she’d been crying—she clutched a wad of tissues—and her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, her face a deadly pale.

“I’m so sorry,” she choked out. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know he was using me.”

I sat down beside her on the couch while Slash pulled a chair closer. “Amanda, what happened?”

She looked down at her hands. “The Secret Service told me about Dominic…what he did. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t think—I didn’t know—he could do something like this.” She started to shred the tissues in her hand. “I’m cleared of any wrongdoing, but I’m a mess. I’m sick at what has happened because of me. People were hurt. People died. I’ve come to resign as your wedding planner.”

Slash put an hand on her arm. “Slow down. This isn’t your fault. You’re not the first person in the world, nor will you be the last, to make a bad judgment call about someone else. This isn’t on you.”

She started to cry, fat tears falling down her cheeks and her lips quivered. “I’m wrecked, ruined. I can’t even wrap my head around it.”

I took a deep breath and looked at Slash over her head. He seemed to know what I was going to say and nodded slightly.

“Amanda, we don’t want you to resign as our wedding planner,” I said gently. “You’ve done an amazing job so far. I can’t even begin to tell you how fortunate we are to have you. However, if you feel like you can’t continue, we’ll respect that. But we’re so close now and we’d like you to finish this off with us if you’re up to it.”

She swiped her eyes and nose with the tissue clump, looking at us in disbelief. “After all this, you’d want me to continue?”

“Why should you pay for the crimes of someone else?” Slash asked.

I tried to lighten the mood. “Besides, aren’t wedding planners supposed to be resilient and able to handle multiple crises with ease?”

That did elicit a little smile from her. “No offense, but I’ve never planned a wedding with so many insane and life-threatening crises. Not even the president’s daughter. Seriously, do you guys live like this all the time?”

Slash and I looked at each other, and then we both shrugged.

“Maybe,” I said.

She took several deep breaths to collect herself. “I just want to make sure you’re okay continuing with me. I need to have your full trust and confidence, because I can’t do my job properly without that.”

“You have both, Amanda,” I assured her. “I’ll let Mom and Basia know you’ve been cleared and you’re back on the job. I’m really sorry this happened to you.”

She nodded and stood. “Me, too. I don’t know how to thank you for trusting me with your wedding. But even more, thank you for believing in me. That means so much to me.”

“Thank you for sticking it out with us,” I said. “Given everything that’s happened so far this week, we’re just glad you didn’t quit on us.”

After she left, Slash closed the door and leaned against it. I rubbed the back of my neck wearily. “You think she is innocent?”

“I do,” Slash said. “I’m a trained interrogator, and she wasn’t faking the trauma. But someone in the Secret Service is going to get in trouble for not checking out the boyfriend more carefully.”

“I presume this means you’re still going to be on high alert at our wedding.”

“Of course.” He walked over and gave me a kiss on the mouth. “Don’t worry. I’m good at multitasking. I won’t forget my vows or where I’m supposed to stand.”

I wound my arms around his neck, pulling him back toward me for another kiss. “You’d better not, because I’m following your lead.”

FORTY-EIGHT

Lexi

Mom was a nervous wreck about meeting the pope again. She’d changed her mind about what she should wear at least eleven times, according to Dad, winding him so tight he was grinding his teeth by the time they arrived.

Dad told me about it over a glass of wine while Mom didn’t show a shred of nerves, chatting effortlessly with Father Armando as we waited for the pope to arrive. Unfortunately, somehow the word had leaked that the pope was coming to the hotel. Thousands of locals had formed a voyeuristic ring around the hotel, hoping for a glimpse. It was such a contrast with inside the hotel, where everything was sedate, and a hotel musician played soft music on a grand piano in the bar. I noted that the musician’s performance wasn’t even remotely comparable to Slash’s the day or so before on the same piano.

“Mom looks stunning as usual,” I said, observing her demure gray dress and silver belt. “She didn’t have to worry. I know the pope is the pope, but tonight he’s family. He insisted that we put protocol aside and operate informally, as if he’s just one of us.”

“Try telling your mother that.”

“I did, but apparently it didn’t help.”

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