Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 39947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 200(@200wpm)___ 160(@250wpm)___ 133(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 200(@200wpm)___ 160(@250wpm)___ 133(@300wpm)
Mads was ten weeks along with Satan’s Spawn number two. In truth, I loved Ronan, their son, more than I did most of my extended family members.
In his defense, her husband, Chase, worshipped Mads like she was the next coming of Jesus. He just was horrible to everyone else.
“Next time don’t marry a handsome, six-two billionaire. They’re impossible to resist.”
“Okay, next time I won’t.” I could practically hear my best friend’s eyes rolling. “Try to have a good time, all right? I know you’re allergic to weddings, but this one isn’t your own, so technically, you can still have some fun.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I knocked back the rest of my champagne as I sailed my way to the reception room. Most of the pink-wearing guests were already seated inside, an indication the ceremony was about to start. I casually passed the sign by the massive doors.
To the wedding of Cornelius Fergus Smith III and Kellianne Tracey McLean.
“Keep the EpiPen nearby,” my friend warned me.
Chapter Two
Layla
I slipped into a chair in the last row, smiling my hellos to a string of women who appeared to be my age, all wearing a different shade of pink. I was a firm believer of not yucking anyone’s yum, but I just didn’t see how making everyone look like a vagina added to the ambiance of a wedding.
“Hi, I’m Layla.” I waved to the woman closest to me. She turned around and gave me a small, unsure smile.
“I’m Tara.”
Tara’s eyes were pink-rimmed. Her face was pale with exhaustion. I wanted to ask her what was wrong, before reminding myself it was none of my business. I trained my eyes on my phone instead, thumbing through fuckboys on a dating app.
God, I hated being single. Too bad I hated the possibility of being taken even more. I was working on it with a therapist, though. The possibility of being a part of two, Dr. Lopez called it. She said I’d been making progress. And still . . .
“Ohmigod, there’s Connor.” Tara, beside me, pointed at the altar. “He wore a pink bow tie.”
“It suits him so well.” The woman from Tara’s other side sighed dreamingly.
I stole a quick glance up from my screen. The minute I saw him, my eyes froze.
So did my heart.
So did every single muscle in my body.
Panic. Terror. Pain.
Standing at the altar, wearing a crisp suit and a smug smile, was my own personal demise.
Cornelius was Connor.
And Connor was my Connor.
My ex-boyfriend.
My only serious relationship ever.
The man who’d ruined my life. The person who’d caused me to be in therapy to begin with.
The monster who smashed my heart into a trillion different pieces, most of them too tiny to ever glue back together.
The man who made me swear off love, and children, and everything in between.
I ran into the restroom, locked the door, and gripped the edges of the vanity as I stared at the mirror. My mouth was paper-dry, and a film of cold sweat covered my entire body.
Cornelius Fergus Smith III.
Of course he had the name of a fucking Confederate States general.
How did I not know his full name before? But the answer was clear to me. He never got any bills to our shared apartment back then. His parents paid his way for everything. I never actually saw his ID, either. Connor was a big deal back in college. He never got carded when we were at bars and clubs.
“You’re not going to make a scene, Layla Schmidt. No, look at me. You’re not.” I wagged a finger at myself in the mirror. “You’re going to go out there, sit on your ass—that looks great in this dress, by the way—wait until the ceremony is over, and go back to your daily program. He doesn’t have any power over you anymore. He’s somebody else’s problem now.”
But Kellianne didn’t deserve this. She was only twenty-three. Not much older than I was back when Connor—who was a year older than me, now thirty-four—destroyed my life.
Maybe he’s changed.
But I knew he hadn’t. To change, you must first bear the consequences of your actions, and he never did. His family was always there to clean up his mess.
What were my options here?
Well, I could go back there, pretend he was a complete stranger who didn’t alter every decision and dream I’d ever had, play along, go home, and forget about it.
My second choice was to go out there, make a scene, embarrass everyone—mostly myself—and run off to tend to my own nervous breakdown.
The third was to walk out of here and tell Kellianne I was sick if she ever asked where I was next week, when she returned to work.
I knew I wasn’t going to run away this time, which left me with the first two options.
Ignoring a pending calamity was never my style. I was the woman who sent all her friends mammogram and Pap smear reminders, who always volunteered to be the designated driver. My apartment was fully babyproofed for my friends’ toddlers. I grew seventeen different plants in my living room to offset my carbon footprint on this planet.