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She’d asked him if he had any preferences on the type of wedding he wanted and he’d told her that he didn’t care as he had no one he wanted to invite, though he did insist on no media coverage.
She was fine with that. She had no one to invite either, though she’d decided she wanted more than the register office wedding that Atticus had suggested. She’d lost many important things in her life, but a lovely wedding gown, a beautiful church, wedding rings and a ceremony weren’t going to number among those things. They weren’t marrying for love, but for a will, it was true, but she wanted the trappings of a true wedding all the same. She’d even insisted on a honeymoon.
Atticus hadn’t argued. The only thing he seemed to want was her, at least physically. He’d been insatiable, glutting himself every night on her, keeping her up until the small hours of the morning. She hadn’t minded, not when she’d been just as obsessed as he was. The things he’d taught her, the things they did together...
They made her feel hot to think about, they made her feel hungry. He made her feel hungry. As if the more she had of him, the more she wanted. She hadn’t realised sex could be like that, and she wasn’t sure she liked it. It made her feel vulnerable, as if she needed him, and she didn’t like the idea of needing him. Then again, she didn’t want to stop and there was no reason to anyway. He was going to be her husband and since children had been part of Aristeidis’s will, they had to be conceived somehow.
The emotion that constricted her throat tightened further as she looked in the mirror. She couldn’t tell if what she felt was grief, regret, happiness or anger. Maybe it was a combination of all of them. Grief that her long-ago family weren’t around to see her get married. That her father wouldn’t be able to give her away, neither would Aristeidis. Regret that Aristeidis was gone, that he wouldn’t see her marry his son.
Happiness that here she was in the most beautiful wedding gown she’d ever seen, and she felt good in it, and she would have a veil and flowers, and it would be the wedding she’d always dreamed of.
Anger that she was wasting all of this on a man she didn’t love and who didn’t love her.
Then again, without that man, she wouldn’t even be having a wedding, let alone a wedding dress like this, with acres of white silk and frothy tulle, rising up into a strapless bodice with a deep V neckline that showcased her pale shoulders and breasts. There were tiny crystals embroidered onto the skirts that glittered and sparkled whenever she moved, as if stars had fallen all over her and had become caught in the fabric.
Do you really deserve this? After you let a complete stranger take you away to a pampered life in Greece, while your family lay dead beneath the rubble?
The old doubts whispered unexpectedly in her head, chilling her, but she forced them aside. What was she supposed to have done? She’d been eight and all alone. She’d had to leave them behind; she’d had to.
Anyway, what was done was done, and she couldn’t think about it now.
Elena stared at her figure in the mirror, blinking fiercely against the prickle of silly emotional tears.
Atticus would like it, she was sure, but there wouldn’t be any other, deeper emotion attached to it for him. He wasn’t marrying her because he loved her and wanted her to be his wife. He was marrying her to provide for her, because he felt obligated towards her due to his father’s will, and that wasn’t the same.
You weren’t supposed to care whether he loved you or not.
And she didn’t. Not at all. It was only that a wedding was supposed to be a celebration of love and theirs wouldn’t be a celebration of anything.
So what’s the point of all this? The dress and the church? The rings and flowers? You might just as well have got married in a register office.
Elena tore her gaze from the mirror and adjusted the bodice needlessly. There was a point to this. The gown and the little church on Kalifos where they were going to be married, the rings...all of those things were for her, because she wanted them. She’d lost everything that mattered to her once and then she’d lost it again after Aristeidis had died. She wasn’t going to let it happen again. She wanted a home and a family and everything that went with it, and that included a proper wedding. That mattered to her.
You won’t have a proper husband though.
Elena forced the thought away as a knock sounded on the bedroom door.
Gathering her skirts, she went over to it, opening it a crack, not wanting anyone to get a glimpse of her gown.
It was Atticus.
The sight of him sent first a shock, then a shiver of pure heat straight through her. She wasn’t expecting him, not now, not so early in the evening. He wasn’t supposed to come until well after dinner had been finished and the sky was dark.
Yet here he was and her pulse was already beginning to pick up, her mouth getting dry. He wore one of the handmade suits that looked so stunning on him, this one in a deep, dark blue wool, bordering on black. The colour was fantastic against his tanned skin, as was the white of his shirt. He wasn’t wearing a tie and the top buttons of his shirt were undone and immediately all she wanted was to press her mouth to his throat.
His eyes glittered—clearly he knew exactly what she was thinking.
‘You’re early,’ she said, feeling herself blush, which was ridiculous considering all the things they’d done together over the past week.
‘I need to talk to you.’ His gaze dropped to her bare shoulders. ‘Though, if you’re naked, I can think of something else I’d much rather do first.’
Much to her annoyance, she could feel her blush deepen. ‘I’m not naked, but I need a minute to change.’
‘I can help with that.’
A strangely vulnerable feeling stole through her. She didn’t want him to see her in her gown, not yet, which was silly considering he wouldn’t care. But still, she’d wanted a proper wedding and the groom not seeing the bride in her gown before the wedding was a tradition.
‘No,’ she said, not wanting to explain it to him. Her emotions and reasons were too complicated and she didn’t want to go into it.
