Page 36 of I Wish I Would’ve Warned You (Forbidden Wishes #3)
COLE
O n the night of the wedding rehearsal, Emily steps into the restaurant wearing a white silk dress that reveals the curve of her breasts, her hair pulled up in large curls. Her skin catches the light, and for a second, the entire room stills.
“Jesus…” someone on my left mutters. “How can anyone ever focus when she’s around?”
You can’t. My jaw locks, breath tight.
She shakes hands with guests and smiles for photos. Other men in the wedding party take long, lingering stares, and no one bothers to hide it.
They look at her like she’s available. Like she isn’t mine—wasn’t mine—weeks ago, skin on skin, swearing it would always be us.
She glances at me once. Barely. Then takes a seat a few chairs down like it doesn’t cost her anything.
I can’t do this shit...
“Are you planning to give a toast to your father and the future Mrs. Dawson, Cole?” Frank, my father’s business manager, nudges me with a grin.
“A toast to what ?”
Everyone at the table laughs like I’ve made a joke.
There’s nothing funny about this shit.
“That’s alright.” Frank pats my shoulder. “I’ll try to work on something with you tonight, or we’ll do a joint toast together. Yeah?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“You’ll do it.” He lowers his voice. “Your father has given you everything and more in this life, and a journalist from every major network and newspaper is here to cover this wedding, so the son of Aidan Dawson will be giving a toast.”
I ignore his empty threat and keep my eyes on Emily.
“It’s such a wonderful idea to have the wedding at the estate,” the woman across from me says to her. “I bet every woman in the county will be itching to rent it out for her own happily-ever-after the moment the pictures hit all the magazines.”
“I’m sure…” Emily pushes a lump of potatoes across her plate.
Without looking my way, she laughs politely at all the wrong moments and thanks guests who barely listen.
She says “I’m fine” like she’s done it a thousand times before, like it’s part of her DNA whenever someone asks if she’s alright.
She twists her napkin around one finger again and again, slow and tight, like she’s barely holding herself together.
All around us, the table glows with golden light and curated floral arrangements. Jazz hums softly from overhead, and crystal glasses gleam under chandeliers. It’s perfect. It’s picturesque.
It’s suffocating.
And I sit there, counting every second I can’t touch her.
Every breath I can’t take without it hurting.
When the desserts start circulating and the chatter thickens, she excuses herself with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. Her chair barely makes a sound as she slips away from the table, heading toward the back entrance alone.
She brushes past my shoulder as she goes, and I almost reach out—almost grab her wrist just to make her see me again.
But I don’t.
And that restraint burns like acid.
Frank says something else—probably a joke, definitely not worth remembering—but I don’t hear it.
I push back my chair and leave.
Because if I sit here one more minute pretending like this is okay, I will come undone.