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SIX

AUDREY

“Audrey!” Lucille’s voice cuts through my daydream and yanks me back to reality. “Audrey, are you listening?”

I blink rapidly and find her staring at me with thinly veiled irritation.

Instantly, I straighten in my chair. “I’m sorry, what?”

“The roses, dear.” She gestures to the elaborate floral arrangements spread across the table before us. “White or blush for the centerpieces?”

I glance down at the flowers and try to focus. “Um, the blush ones. They’re beautiful.”

The florist, Marguerite, beams at my selection.

“Excellent choice, Miss Worthington. The blush roses will complement the ivory linens beautifully.”

We’re sitting in Petals & Blooms, the most exclusive floral boutique in Wyoming.

The shop is a converted Victorian house, with original hardwood floors and delicate crown molding.

Crystal vases filled with exotic blooms line antique shelves, and the air is heavy with the mingled scents of roses, lilies, and freesia.

Sunlight streams through tall windows, catching on the diamond that weighs down my left hand.

This is the third wedding appointment this week. Yesterday was the caterer, tomorrow the venue coordinator. Lucille has orchestrated every detail with military precision, as if rushing through the planning might prevent me from changing my mind. Not that I have that option.

I should be paying attention to these details. This is, after all, my wedding.

But my mind keeps drifting back to San Diego.

“The roses will pair wonderfully with the peonies we discussed for the bridal bouquet,” Marguerite continues, flipping through her portfolio to show us examples. “And for the ceremony arch, I was thinking cascading orchids with?—”

My attention drifts away from the cascade of wedding details spilling from Marguerite’s perfectly glossed lips. Her voice becomes background noise, blending with the soft classical music playing overhead as my mind drifts back to San Diego.

In my mind, I’m back in that hotel room. I can almost feel the weight of Reign’s arms around me, the scratch of his beard against my neck, the way his voice rumbled through his chest when he growled my name.

“Audrey.” Lucille’s voice has that warning edge again.

“Yes?”

“Marguerite asked about the bridesmaids’ flowers.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, forcing myself to focus. “What were the options again?”

Lucille sighs, the sound heavy with disappointment. “Perhaps we should take a short break. Marguerite, would you mind getting us some water?”

The florist nods and disappears toward the back of the shop, leaving the two of us alone.

“What is wrong with you today?” Lucille’s voice is low but sharp. “This is your wedding we’re planning. The most important day of your life.”

I resist the urge to correct her.

“I’m just tired,” I tell her. “There’s been so much to organize.”

“That’s why I’m handling most of it,” she reminds me. “All you need to do is show up and make decisions when asked. Is that really so difficult?”

Before I can answer, Marguerite returns with water.

“Here you go, dear,” she says, handing me a crystal glass. “You looked a bit flushed.”

I take a grateful sip, the cool water doing little to wash away the bitter taste of Lucille’s words.

Most important day of my life. If only she knew what the most important night of my life had actually been.

That night where I was wrapped in Reign’s arms, feeling truly alive for the first time in twenty-three years, was far more important.

“Now then,” Marguerite settles back into her chair, oblivious to the tension crackling between Lucille and me. “For the bridesmaids’ bouquets, I was thinking smaller versions of your arrangement. Perhaps white roses with touches of eucalyptus?”

“That sounds lovely,” Lucille answers when I don’t respond quickly enough.

I nod absently, my fingers unconsciously twisting the engagement ring Gio placed on my finger three days ago.

I wonder what Reign is doing right now. Is he thinking about me? Does he hate me for disappearing without a word? I wouldn’t blame him. What kind of person sleeps with someone, connects with someone on that level, and then vanishes before dawn?

The kind of person who’s engaged to someone else.

Two more hours of floral decisions later, we’re finally done.

Lucille signs the contract while I gather my purse, eager to escape the cloying scent of flowers that now reminds me of obligation rather than romance.

Outside, our driver holds the door of the black SUV open for us.

The tinted windows shield us from curious onlookers as we slide into the leather interior.

As soon as the door closes, Lucille turns to me, her expression severe.

“That was embarrassing,” she says. “You were completely distracted the entire meeting.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t fix the impression you left. Marguerite is the most sought-after florist in the state. Do you know how many strings I had to pull to get her for your wedding?”

I stare out the window as we pull away from the curb, watching the boutiques and cafés of downtown blur together.

“I appreciate everything you’re doing, Lucille.”

“Do you? Because you’re certainly not acting like it.”

I sigh and bite my tongue.

As we approach the Worthington estate, I straighten my posture and prepare to step back into character. The wrought iron gates swing open to admit us, and the SUV turns onto the driveway toward the sprawling mansion where I grew up.

My heart sinks when I spot another black SUV parked at the entrance, flanked by two men in suits.

Gio is here.

“Did you know Gio was coming today?” Lucille asks, following my gaze to the security detail.

“No,” I say, my stomach dropping. “He didn’t mention it.”

This has been the one silver lining of our engagement, if I can call it that.

After slipping that massive diamond onto my finger three days after I returned from San Diego, Gio has mostly kept his distance.

He’s always claiming to be away on business, handling “important things” that require his immediate attention.

I don’t want to think too hard about what kind of business requires the level of security I’ve been witnessing.

Every time I see him, there are more men in suits, more earpieces, more guns hidden beneath expensive jackets.

We barely talk except to discuss wedding logistics and appearances we need to make together. Part of me has been hoping this arrangement might stay exactly that. An arrangement. Cold, distant, purely transactional.

But I’m not naive enough to think that will last forever.

“Honestly, Audrey,” Lucille sighs as our SUV comes to a stop. “How do you expect to build a marriage if you don’t even know his schedule?”

The driver opens my door, and I step out onto the circular driveway, my heels clicking against the stone. The late afternoon sun glints off the mansion’s windows, and I can see a figure moving behind the sheer curtains of the front parlor.

Gio is waiting.

“Maybe he wanted to surprise me,” I say weakly, though we both know that’s not his style. Giovanni Vega doesn’t do romantic surprises. Everything he does is calculated, planned, designed to serve his purposes.

Lucille’s heels tap a sharp rhythm as we climb the front steps. Before we can reach for the door handle, it swings open to reveal Maria, our longtime housekeeper.

“Miss Audrey,” she says with a warm smile. “Mr. Vega is waiting for you in the library.”

Of course, he is. The library is my father’s old sanctuary, the room where he used to retreat to make his most important business decisions. Gio claiming that space feels like another small violation, another way he’s inserting himself into every corner of my family’s legacy.

“Thank you, Maria,” I say, handing her my purse. “How long has he been here?”

“About an hour, miss. He’s been making phone calls.”

Lucille touches my arm. “Go to him. I’ll have Maria bring tea.”

I want to argue, to insist that this is still my home and I shouldn’t have to report to anyone. But the words die in my throat. This stopped being entirely my home the moment I agreed to marry Gio. Now it’s a shared asset, part of the deal we’ve struck.

The library door is slightly ajar, and I can hear Gio’s voice before I reach it.

I take a deep breath and push open the library door, stepping into the room that still smells faintly of my father’s cologne and old leather. Gio stands with his back to me, phone pressed to his ear, but he turns the moment he hears my footsteps.

His face transforms into that devastating smile that probably melts most women’s hearts.

At thirty-six, Giovanni Vega is undeniably gorgeous.

He is six feet three inches of perfectly tailored masculinity.

His dark hair is styled with just enough product to look effortless, and his broad shoulders strain against his expensive suit jacket in a way that hints at the fighter he used to be.

Even I can admit he’s objectively beautiful.

It’s everything else about him that makes my skin crawl.

“I’ll call you back,” he says into the phone, his eyes never leaving mine. He ends the call and slips the device into his jacket pocket. “There’s my beautiful fiancée.”

I force my lips into what I hope passes for a pleasant smile. “Gio. I wasn’t expecting you until later.”

He crosses the room quickly and leans down to kiss my cheek. His lips are warm, his cologne expensive, but all I can think about is how different this feels from Reign’s rough stubble and cedar scent.

“I thought we should get there early tonight,” he says, his hand settling possessively on my lower back. “I want to introduce you to some people, and I’d like to stop by the locker room to wish Ben good luck before the fight.”