Page 131 of The Wrong Groom

“I mean, come on, man. It seemed like everything was going great. Better than you thought it would.” Beckett narrows his eyes at me. “So what the fuck were you thinking? Did something happen, or…”

A grimace crosses my face, unbidden. “It’s complicated.”

Beckett lets out a frustrated huff. “Oh, ‘it’s complicated,’ he says. Listen, do you love her?”

I feel like a hand is reaching into my ribcage, squeezing my heart. I clench my jaw and remain silent.

“Yeah,” Beckett mutters. “That’s what I thought.” Shaking his head, he leans back on the couch.

“It’s not as simple as⁠—”

“Sure it is,” he interrupts. “Why not? I mean, you won. These arranged marriages are a pain in the ass, don’t get me wrong.” Something flits across his face, a shadow of irritation. “I’ve been dreading mine. The woman they’ve got lined up for me? Fucking hell, we have absolutely nothing in common. She’s the least interesting person I’ve ever met in my entire life. There’s no way I’m ever going to love her.”

He meets my gaze, his eyes blazing.

“But you hit the jackpot. Alexis is perfect for you. She made you so much happier, and literally everyone can see it.”

Next to him, Dominic shuffles uncomfortably. I give Dom a long look, and I can see the same sentiment echoed in his eyes, even if he doesn’t say it out loud.

“Look at you now,” Beckett adds. “You’re wrecked. You look like a damn zombie.”

I sigh, my shoulders slumping. I try to disguise my reaction to Beckett’s words by leaning forward, fixing my gaze on the floor. It’s quiet for a few seconds, and the quiet is far less comfortable than the silences we usually share.

Finally, Beckett waves a hand, his expression softening. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to twist the knife. If you don’t want to talk about it, we don’t have to talk about it.”

“I appreciate that,” I say, my voice rougher than I want it to be. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

Beckett clicks his tongue. “Done.” He turns to Tristan. “Shop talk time. I heard a rumor you were looking to acquire Zestify.”

“What’s Zestify?” Jackson asks, mystified.

“I don’t even fucking know,” Beckett says, gesturing effusively. “That’s my point. It’s some random social-media-slash-cooking app, and Thorne Enterprises is going to acquire them?”

“We’re not acquiring Zestify.” Tristan rolls his eyes. “They approached me at the Forbes thing, not the other way around.”

“What, are you getting your news from rumors now?” Dominic looks amused. “Beck, you’re at every meeting we have. Don’t you think you’d have heard if⁠—”

“That’s why I was pissed about it!”

My brothers’ conversation fades into the background, my thoughts still lingering on Beckett’s words. The ache in my chest is a constant pressure, something I can’t shake off no matter how much I try to push it away.

I wanted to invite everyone over for dinner for two reasons. The first was to try and make myself feel normal, which isn’t working. The second was to convince them that I’m fine, that they don’t have to worry about me.

I know they’ve been worried about me. My brothers have been texting nonstop. For the most part, Beckett notwithstanding, they’ve all been good about respecting my privacy. None of them have pried, even though they have every right to, considering that my divorce will impact the company. Still, I can tell that they’re concerned. I don’t want them to be.

Based on what Beckett said, though, I haven’t done a great job of hiding my pain. You’re wrecked. You look like a damn zombie. No one argued with him.

All things considered, that’s not surprising. Since Alexis left, I haven’t gotten a full night’s sleep. Not even close, in fact. I’ve been waking up every few hours like I used to before she moved in. I’ve been like a shell of myself, focused only on meetings and phone calls. Margaret has been around every day from morning to night to make sure Peyton isn’t suffering from the tension in the house. She’s been a godsend, but I still feel like I’m sinking.

Dinner, courtesy of Tristan and Chloe’s private chef, is delicious, but I hardly taste it. I push the braised duck around my plate, trying to make it look like I’m eating, but my mind is elsewhere, replaying every moment of my last conversation with Alexis. I catch my family stealing glances at me every so often. Their concern is palpable.

After we eat, everyone retires to the living room for a drink, and I turn my attention to Peyton. She’s starting to look sleepy. It’s half an hour after her usual bedtime. Chloe and Ivy offer to read Peyton her bedtime story, but I insist on doing it myself.

I carry her upstairs to her bedroom, closing the door to seal off the murmurs of my family downstairs. Peyton picks out her pajamas and climbs into bed, and I perch beside her and read her a story, something cute about a lost puppy finding its way home.

As I’m flipping through the watercolor-adorned pages of the storybook, Pepper jumps up onto the bed, purring contentedly. The little black-and-white kitten kneads the blankets like she’s preparing dough for biscuits, then curls her head on her tiny paws to sleep. By the time the story is finished, Peyton looks half asleep too, as if lulled by the rising and falling of Pepper’s side as she breathes.

I slip the book back on the shelf and make my way out of the room, careful not to disturb my daughter. Out in the hallway, I can hear my brothers’ conversation drifting up the stairs despite their efforts to keep their voices down.