Page 53 of Vows in Sin
Liam and Emilia are the king and queen of this place, and like the president and first lady, they reside in a large white house.
Cleopatra arches a curious brow at Emilia. “Like what?”
“A wedding.” Emilia’s voice is soft but certain. “Move it up. Let’s not wait. Give them something beautiful to look forward to. To celebrate. To hold onto. A wedding is always so inspiring.”
Seems like the wrong time to guilt the bride into rushing her wedding, which, I can say very nicely if she needs me to, but I bite my tongue and wait for Cleopatra’s reaction.
Cleopatra pauses. Her eyes search Emilia’s face, the glimmer of emotion flickering behind her lashes. “That would be wonderful. The sooner the better.”
“Thank you.” Emilia gives her a grateful smile. “I think it’s what everyone needs.”
Cleopatra shoots me a secret look. We never got the Beauties to spill their secrets about the ceremony.
“We can get it ready as soon as you’d like, friend.”
We round the corner, coming off the path past a thick wall of trees. The tarmac is a way off but now in view. Our conversation dies.
The massive concrete oval is lined with jets, their humming cutting through the otherwise quiet field, as a few wait their turn to disembark. Bachmans are arriving in waves. Some have come here. Others went to the Parrish, the family's private island in Greece. A few of the younger men are bloodied, others shaken, all displaced.
Scattered, like sparks from the fire that chased them.
Still, they’re beautiful people, somehow managing to look like the set of a movie, a war zone in pressed suits and ashyflorals. Children look bewildered or unaffected, a few playing tag through the fields. Mothers cling to the youngest ones. Men speak in hushed, clipped tones on phones that never stop ringing.
What was I thinking? Looking my best? Today is not about my discomfort or my need. I need to be in sneakers and jeans, ready to lend a hand.
Feeling utterly foolish, I rub the back of my hand over my mouth, rubbing off the garish lipstick.
Seeing their battered family members, Emilia and Cleopatra break into a run. I follow behind. A teen girl in a tattered ash-streaked T-shirt is up ahead, walking toward a white medical tent alone.
I shrug out of the robe, offering it to her as she walks by. “Here. You look like you could use something fresh.”
She stops, staring at the robe in my hand. “You sure? This is gorgeous!”
“Yeah. Let me help you.” I hold it open for her.
“Thanks.” She slips her slim arms into the sleeves. She smooths her hand over the silk. Despite what she’s been through, she cocks a resilient brow, “Vintage?”
“Oscar De La Renta,” I confirm. “Keep it. It looks better on you.”
People hug each other like the survivors they are. Some laugh through tears. Others collapse into each other’s arms, their relief tangible. Emilia runs for a group of women who hold their arms out to her, calling her name.
Cleopatra goes off to a group of men, Blaze among them.
And me?
I stand at the edge of it all, watching like I’m behind glass.
Everyone has someone. They share history.
That’s what I want.
Again. Selfish. What is wrong with me?
A girl runs past me, calling out for her older brother. Another stops to hug a friend, both of them sobbing. The ache in my chest expands. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to quiet it. They barely escaped with their lives.
Homes, their heirlooms, their memories—all ashes.
I look around for something to do, to help with. I see a woman with pale skin and long, dark hair handing out bottles of water from a cooler. A line is forming beside her.
