Page 57 of Legacy of Deception

I swallowed, putting one hand in the other, not knowing what else to do with them. Just as I didn’t know what else to do in general. “And you don’t like it?”

Marco’s head snapped to me, and he rubbed his hand up and down my back. “What does that matter? Do you like it, Brooklyn?”

No, I didn’t really like or want anything this space had to offer. I wanted something warm, maybe a grand staircase to make an entrance, holding my husband’s hand as we descended them together. We’d present ourselves to everyone in attendance at each other’s side, which was exactly how I had always dreamed of my marriage being. A partnership. Togetherness at the forefront.

I wanted to do the dishes with my husband.

I wanted to make the bed with my husband.

I wanted to fold laundry with my husband.

Not literally. We’d have help, I knew, but the sentiment was there.

Speaking in terms of this penthouse, I didn’t want an elongated table where Marco sat at the opposite end from me. Or our guests had to shout across the table just to be heard, or alternatively, give up and eat their meal in silence. I wanted a sweetheart table where we could look out and see everyone, talking, laughing, enjoying themselves, at circular tables with no seating arrangement.

I didn’t want to have to comb through a ridiculously thick binder with the guest list and every guest having their own personal problems or requests they needed met. This one couldn’t sit next to this one because the divorce was still being finalized. This one would prefer to sit next to this one after the falling out they had with this one. It was too much drama. None of which I wanted any part in. I deserved more, and so did my wedding. So did Marco.

Wasn’t it bad enough we didn’t even know about this until the very last minute?

So, the question of whether I liked it was a lot more complicated than that, and it also didn’t matter. “Don’t be silly, Marco.” I widened my eyes, trying to get my point across that he needed to follow my lead on this one. “Mom, you were saying?”

“It simply won’t be accommodating to the guest list we finalized.”

“What guest list? I didn’t see one.” We didn’t need to be part of every little decision, but that one would have been nice. Peering over at Marco, I arched a brow.

He shrugged casually. “Me neither.”

“Just to clarify, the restaurant has the capacity to hold up to two hundred guests,” Lauren chimed in, holding her device close to her chest.

That seemed like more than enough, in my opinion. My side of the family wouldn’t have nearly as many people, but that should accommodate Marco’s side nicely. Watching Lauren avert her gaze, I tried to put us all out of our misery, opening my mouth to explain why I thought it was going to be okay.

“That won’t do,” my mother insisted, and I immediately clamped my mouth shut, focusing on the pearl ring on my finger. Pearls symbolized innocence and quiet strength, one of which I had lost a long time ago, and the other one I never had but longed for.

“Kiki, how many guests did you want?” Marco’s voice was low, almost a whisper as he homed in on me. His expression was soft, his eyes searching my face, probably trying to figure out where the woman he knew went. Unfortunately, I wasn’t meant to be myself with everyone. This was just the way things were.

“This isn’t the time,” I ground out through a false smile.

He didn’t move a muscle. “Yes, it is.”

My mother exhaled, like she had the weight of the world on her chest and was trying to relieve some of the pressure. She should have only known a fraction of how I felt. How she made me feel. She and my father. “This is pointless,” she murmured, staring down at the marble flooring. Whipping her head up, she looked at Marco, narrowing her eyes like he was a nuisance she wished she could get rid of. A nagging cough that wouldn’t go away even after the rest of the symptoms from the common cold subsided. “She wants more than two hundred, that much I can assure you.”

My brain felt foggy, and I pinched the bridge of my nose.

“I don’t think you’re right,” Marco said, overstepping. His heart was in the right place, but— “Kiki.” He looked to me for an answer.

“Honey.” My mother turned to me for an answer too.

To the same question. To put an end to the same conversation.

Marco reached over and placed his hand over mine, trying to open my locked fist like it held a key he needed.

They were both still looking at me.

They both wanted an answer.

And neither one of them were going to let this go.

I swallowed past the lump in my throat. I was so tired of this. “Understandably it won’t be an intimate wedding, and I realize they have a minimum guest count of one hundred and fifty, but I did think maybe we could keep it closer to that number.”