Page 28 of Unmanageable

I step onto the grass, the thin heel of my shoe sinking into the turf before I adjust my weight, regaining my poise.

The walk down the aisle feels miles long. I keep my chin high, my shoulders back, playing the part of the fiercely protective, completely unbothered Maid of Honor.

But then I pass the front row on the groom’s side, and the air leaves my lungs all at once.

Two chairs are left empty, draped with white lilies and framed photographs.

Ivy’s mom. Cal’s mom.

The hollow silence of those empty chairs in the middle of all this wealth and celebration is a brutal reminder of the things we can’t negotiate, the things no contract can fix.

The people who should be here to straighten a tie or smooth down a veil are just pictures in a silver frame.

I glance toward the altar and see the groom.

Callahan looks like he’s about to shatter into a million pieces. He’s standing there, his jaw so tight I can see the muscle jumping, his hands clasped in front of him so hard his knuckles are white.

I take my place opposite him and then the music shifts.

Ivy appears at the end of the aisle.

The entire world goes silent.

It’s like the wind stops blowing just to watch her walk.

Cal makes this choked-off, broken sound in the back of his throat—a wet, desperate breath that I didn’t think a guy that big was capable of making.

The ceremony is a blur of flower petals and spoken promises.

I spend a lot of time staring at the lilies on the empty chairs, trying to keep my Shark mask firmly in place, forcing the tears back until my eyes sting.

My chest feels tight, like the silk of my dress is a size too small and the air in the garden is too thick to breathe.

I feel the weight of time, the way we’re all shifting, moving into these new versions of ourselves, and it’s overwhelming.

I look up, trying to clear my head, and I realize Cash is watching me.

He isn’t looking at the bride. He isn’t looking at the priest. He’s looking across the altar, straight at me, his gaze so heavy that it feels like he’s physically touching me.

“I do,” Ivy says.

“I do,” Cal echoes, his voice ringing out across the lawn, steady and certain.

The kiss is long, messy, and involves a lot of loud cheering from the back rows where the rest of the Reign teammates are sitting.

As the music swells for the recessional, Cash steps forward, closing the distance between the two sides of the altar, and offers me his arm. I take it, my fingers resting on the hard muscle of his bicep, feeling the hum of his energy through the thin fabric.

“Ready?” he asks, his voice low.

“Let’s get to the bar, Finnian. I have a feeling the next few hours are going to be an absolute bloodbath.”

We reach the end of the lawn, shielded by a large, ancient oak tree before the guests start pouring out of their seats toward the cocktail tent.

Cash stops abruptly, turning his body to face me, blocking the rest of the crowd from view. He doesn’t let go of my arm. His other hand comes up, his thumb brushing a stray tear I missed away from the edge of my cheek.

“You okay?” he asks, his bravado gone.

“I’m fine,” I say, trying to pull away, but he’s solid, unyielding. “Just a little lighthearted emotional trauma to kick off the weekend. Standard wedding stuff. I’m going to go find a gin and tonic.”