Page 20 of His Last Will

“So,” Isabelle clears her throat and takes a sip of wine, “I talked to the wedding planner, and we have selected the perfect venue.”

My entire body goes still at her words. “What?” Bile fills the back of my throat, and I immediately push away my plate, no longer hungry.

Isabelle clearly doesn’t hear the fury in my tone because she continues on, unbothered, “We have chosen the colors to match the family crest, and she is designing wedding invitations with a similar style. Invitations should be sent out in the coming week. And I have scheduled a dress fitting next weekend.”

The engagement party was only two weeks ago.

“And when, pray tell, is my wedding?” I ask acidly.

“Next month,” Isabelle continues eating like she didn’t just give me life-altering information. “The venue, thank god, had a last-minute cancellation in April, so we snagged it.”

April. Four months after Brodie’s death.

Over my dead body was I getting married next month. And without being consulted. She could go fuck herself with the golden spoon currently in her mouth.

Even though I was in the Araneae family, I wasn’t actually part of it. I was the illegitimate daughter of a conman who tried to steal from The Order. They found me after they slaughtered my father in the dining room of our one-bedroom apartment. Or so they told me.

If Elena, Anthony’s first wife, hadn’t wanted a daughter so bad, then I would be in the ground with my father.

I know I can’t postpone the wedding too long. It had to occur before the Initiation. Yeah, not thinking about that anytime soon. But there was no reason we couldn’t wait until the end of May.

My education was the only thing I really had that was mine. I worked hard for it. Studied, crammed, and got invited to VHU with no help from anyone else. I was not going to take handouts or owe anyone when I walked across that stage.

When I applied to schools, I didn’t even ask Brodie to help. We would only go to the same university if I got in on my own. And I would be damned if someone was going to take this away from me.

Getting married in this family meant I could no longer prioritize school. It meant that it was time to produce an heir, secure the line, and focus on helping Aiden. Thank fuck for my IUD. It would buy me a little time and give me a semblance of control.

This marriage would sideline everything I wanted.

“And was any of this going to be discussed with me? Since it is my wedding?” I don’t even bother to keep the disdain out of my voice.

Interrupting me, Aiden pipes in, “Don’t you mean our wedding?” He looks over at me with a smug smirk on his annoying face.

I could probably orgasm just from punching it.

Isabelle doesn’t even bother to acknowledge me, acting as if I don’t exist. “I have also picked out the flower arrangement and the linen. Samples should arrive tomorrow or the next day.”

“No.”

Silence descends. The kind that promises violence.

Anthony looks up from his dinner, his dark eyes filled with the very violence that fueled the quiet in the room.

Isabelle looks at me as if I’ve gone mad. Who would dare go against Anthony?

“Excuse me?” Anthony says with an undercurrent of temper.

“I will not be getting married next month. In fact, I will not be getting married on your timeline at all.”

“Ari, you do not have a choice in the matter.” Isabelle glares in my direction like her look of contempt will get me to change my mind.

But I do not budge. I won’t. “No, I do. I am going to graduate. I am going to walk across that stage and get my diploma with my last name on it. The summer solstice is well after graduation, and Brodie promised me we could wait until graduation.”

“Brodie isn’t fucking here, is he?” Anthony bites back with barely contained fury. His grip tightens on his knife as he narrows his gaze.

My stomach lurches. How could he be so callous about his only son dying? How could he not care?

“If you want Brodie so bad, we can arrange the grave right next door.” His knife in my chest might feel better than sitting here listening to Anthony talk about his son. Anger lights me up, and I take my wine glass and throw it against the wall, watching as the pieces shatter. “Fuck you, Anthony.”