I’ve bought about a dozen bottles of the stuff so she isn’t tempted to switch to anything else.
Fast forward a year when she has a newborn baby in her arms and a more comfortable life than she has ever dreamed of, it won’t matter that we started with a lie. It won’t even cost her anything. A baby might delay the start of her future, but she can still go to college. I’ll have a nanny sit in class next to her if that’s what she wants.
I can give her everything she never had — it would be stupid for her to walk away.
I’ve never been able to take my eyes off her. It used to be because I was thinking of more and more creative ways to torture the truth out of her. But it’s hard to care about the past when the future is punching me in the face.
When I watch her now, it’s only because I struggle to tear my gaze away.
Getting her pregnant started out as only an obligation, something that needs to happen for me to keep my inheritance. But I find myself watching her for signs of morning sickness or tenderness in her nipples, although sucking on those until they’re hard as almonds on her chest has always been a favorite pastime. Even though I’ve managed to put a few pounds on her, she is still skinny enough that a baby bump will probably be obvious pretty early.
Even in my own head, it’s hard to call it love. There are too many other emotions wrapped up between us for me to put a name to just one. If love is forgiving her for trying to poison me when we were kids and never giving me reason why she did it, then we can call it that.
Also obsession, possession, and any emotion that involves never letting her go.
A few years after it all happened, I read the medical report. There was enough concentrated oleander in my blood to represent thousands of flowers. Something like that doesn’t happen by accident. The poisoning had to have taken place over weeks, with a higher dose on the day that I finally collapsed. My weak heart had nothing to do with poor genetics and everything to do with the effects of all the oleander being slipped into my food.
A poisoning that started when Zaya became my childhood playmate.
But if I can forgive her for that, then she can forgive me for playing a dirty trick on her womb.
Maybe someday, I’ll convince her to finally tell me why.
Although I’m not sure I really want to know.
The day of our wedding ceremony dawns bright and clear. Harsh waves crash on the silky sands of the Shore Club, and the water is too frigid for even a toe dip, but the beach is there to look at and not to swim in.
That water is cold enough to stop your heart after only a few minutes.
There is a nice metaphor in there for the rich people of this town, pretty on the outside but deadly when you get too close.
Giselle has truly outdone herself, which isn’t precisely a compliment. Hundreds of white wooden folding chairs are decorated with gauzy bows, forming a semicircle around a raised altar that has to be the result of about a hundred hours of illegal labor. Almost everyone in town has RSVP’d, and this is shaping up to be an event that puts even the Founder’s Ball to shame. Everything, from the decorations to the view, is like something from a manic chick’s Dream Wedding Pinterest board.
It’s perfect.
And I can’t wait for it all to be over.
Giselle spirited Zaya away early this morning when I was still barely awake. My stepmother insistent that we do the full pre-wedding workup, everything from hair to makeup to sitting in a dressing room and sipping champagne with Giselle’s vapid friends for a few hours. Apparently, I’m not allowed to see her until she walks down the aisle because of some bullshit related to bad luck.
The fact that we’re already legally married doesn’t seem to have filtered through the haze of Giselle’s wedding planning.
Iain is standing up as my best man, with Elliot and Cal behind him as my other groomsmen. Zaya’s bridesmaids are a few random daughters from families on the Bluffs, handpicked by Giselle based on their dress sizes and coloring.
God forbid that the wedding photos embarrass us.
When the music starts up, I’m almost grateful that my stepmother insisted on hiring a full orchestra to play. The Bridal March wouldn’t have the same power coming from a tinny loudspeaker.
Emma comes first, dressed in a pink confection of a dress and flinging handfuls of flower petals in every direction.
But at the sight of Zaya walking down the aisle, it doesn’t matter that my friends are snickering behind me and the closest bridesmaid is surreptitiously checking her phone.
I don’t care about anything except for how beautiful she looks.
Her hair is done up in a twist with gentle curls framing her face. The one thing I insisted on was that the stylist Giselle hired not do anything to straighten it. Her dress is a creamy ivory, fitted at her slim waist and flowing into a full skirt that makes me desperate to find out what might be underneath it.
If there is a garter on her thigh, I am definitely tearing it off with my teeth.
The music swells just as she steps up beside me.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she murmurs in my ear.
“Or an angel.”
“Shut up.” She rolls her eyes, but the blush on her cheeks makes it clear that she appreciates the compliment.
“You know how I feel about dresses — can’t wait to get up under this one.”
She stifles a giggle just as Father Mackerly begins the service.
This time it feels like second nature to gently kiss her
