Page 5

Rhys

S he stands there, reading the note, and I try not to stare.

But it’s impossible.

She’s a shimmering goddess, and I don’t only mean the sparkle of the beads on her dress.

I mean the glitter on her eyes and cheekbones, the shine of her smooth blond hair, the gloss of her bitable lower lip.

She’s slim, almost willowy, but in this dress, she’s all dramatic dips and slopes, and tearing my eyes away from the creamy curves that threaten to spill over the neckline of the dress is the second hardest thing I’ve had to do today.

Her hand, the one holding the note, drops to her side, like it’s too limp to support the weight of the paper.

“I need to get out of here,” she says, her voice lifeless. “Get me out of here.”

My eyes find her face—I can’t help it—and I see her again.

The woman I saw that first day in my firm’s conference room.

Scared and alone and putting on a brave face like it was her job to hold the whole world together.

She’s frightened and lost, and it isn’t my fucking job to save her—it will never be my job to save her—but for the first time, and just this once, I can do what she needs.

“Take off the dress,” I command. “There’s no way to sneak you out of here while you’re wearing that.”

The look on her face might be panic. “Someone has to unzip it. Get Mari.”

“There’s no time,” I say. “Turn around.”

There’s a long moment of hesitation. She has no reason to trust me and every reason to hate me, and the whole world teeters in the balance, waiting.

Then she obeys, giving me the low-cut back of the dress and acres more creamy skin.

This woman has never gone outside without half a bottle of sunscreen on.

When I reach for the zipper, my fingers brush her back, and her skin is as soft as it looks, as soft as satin.

Shut your eyes, I tell myself. Shut your eyes.

But I don’t. I watch the zipper and my fingers all the way down as the sides of the dress part, past the band of her strapless bra, until I brush the curve of her ass above the thin, barely there strip of her pale blue lace thong.

Before the dress can fall to the floor, she clutches it to her chest and steps away from me.

A moment later I’ve forced myself to turn and stare out the window, and by the time I let myself look back at her, she’s slipped into navy sweatpants and a Michigan T-shirt, thrust her feet into a pair of sturdy sandals, and looped a leather handbag over her shoulder.

I know that pale blue lace thong is still under there.

There’s a cowboy hat hanging on the wall, and I grab it and clap it onto her head.

It’s too big for her, which is perfect; it covers her updo and puts her face in deep shadow.

Without another word to each other, we’re slipping out of the bridal prep room and down the back stairs of the venue, out the door, and to the parking lot.

There are a few people still making their way from their cars to their seats, but if they recognize incognito Eden, they don’t call out.

“Where’s your car?” I ask.

“It’s—I didn’t come in my car. Paul drove our car here. Or was supposed to. Mari gave me a ride.”

I tug her down the row of cars to mine. It’s a BMW 740i, a rental. I don’t drive in New York City, so when I get the chance, I like to drive something gorgeous and powerful. “Get in,” I say, and she does.

I peel out of the parking lot and head toward town, which I know from her paperwork is where her condo is. But she’s shaking her head. “I don’t want to go ho—there,” she says.

The fact that she can’t call it “home” anymore cracks something in my chest. “Where do you want me to take you?”

“Just—drive,” she says.

I need to go back to the venue and figure out how to handle the guests. I need to do everything in my power to keep Arthur Weggers from seeing the whole picture of what just happened. I need?—

I need to do whatever she needs me to do.

She takes my silence as hesitation. She thinks I’m going to refuse her. “I can’t go back there,” she pleads. “Please. Just drive.” And then, when I hesitate again, for a second, thinking of Hanna, “You owe me!”

I think of Eden in that courtroom on that last day, of the slump of her shoulders and the way her head hung. Because of what I’d caused or at least allowed.

I had fiduciary responsibilities to Teller. Duties of loyalty and care. I couldn’t ethically negotiate for what was less optimal for him. But also, I helped him hurt her.

I wiped her brave face off.

When that was the last thing I’d ever wanted.

I’ll own that—for her, and also for my mom and Aunt Meryl and every other woman who’s ever been wronged by an asshole man.

So I drive.