Page 134 of The Wrong Groom

I hesitate, my chest tightening. It’s not like I can just tell her I’m pregnant—especially not with Gabriel’s child. I’ve been enough of a disappointment as it is. So I swallow and say, “With work. With the warehouse.”

She doesn’t bother to hide her disdainful scoff. Then she says, “We need you to come in to Vérité’s offices today.”

I haven’t been to work at Vérité in almost two months. Fashion For All has become my sole focus, essentially my full-time job. I should’ve known I wouldn’t be able to avoid Vérité forever, but while I was with Gabriel, working on something I loved, it almost felt like I could step away from my family’s company.

The last time I was at Vérité’s offices, it was only for a short visit, and I could already feel the tension in the air, the silent judgment from my parents. And now, after everything with Gabriel… I just don’t feel ready to face that pressure.

“Can I come in tomorrow?” I ask.

“No,” she replies, her voice brisk. “We need you today.”

“I don’t feel⁠—”

“This isn’t a request. Vérité has important business, and you’re needed. It’s high time you took your responsibilities seriously.”

I grit my teeth, swallowing the urge to scream. “Fine. I’ll come in.”

There’s a brief, almost imperceptible pause before my mother responds. “Glad to hear it.”

The call disconnects. I sit there, staring at the phone in my hand, feeling exhausted, trapped.

If I’m going to see people—or rather, be seen by people—I need to clean up a bit better. With any luck, I’ll be able to put on a good enough facade that my parents won’t even notice that something’s off. I don’t want to answer any prying questions right now. I’m not sure I could hide my pregnancy from my parents if I came under scrutiny.

Fortunately, they’ve never cared much about my health, only the appearance of it. So I go into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. I apply foundation for the first time in what feels like forever, covering the constellations of freckles across the bridge of my nose. I dab concealer beneath my eyes to hide the dark circles and blend everything carefully, hoping it will make me look more awake, less wan.

When I’m done, I stand back and examine myself in the mirror. I still look tired, but I don’t look like I’ve been dragged through hell—at least not physically.

I change into a simple, tailored blouse and a pair of dark slacks, something professional enough to fit into the Vérité offices but also comfortable enough for me to get through the day without feeling like I’m suffocating. The only thing left is to figure out how to get through the rest of the day without falling apart, running to the bathroom to either cry or vomit.

Maybe that won’t be avoidable. Maybe no one will care enough to notice.

I call a car to take me to Vérité’s offices. The short ride is made shorter by my nerves. I fidget in the back seat, fighting a fresh wave of nausea brought on by a combination of fear, motion sickness, and pregnancy.

They probably just need you to do some work, I tell myself. It’s been ages. Something must have come across your desk.

My family usually cuts me out of Vérité’s goings-on, but every once in a while, something slips through the cracks and falls in my lap. Still, I can’t shake the dread that I’m walking into a trap.

The car pulls up to the entrance. I thank the driver, then step out, my heart in my throat as I make my way toward the sleek glass doors.

My palms sweat as I slip through the lobby. Normally, when I show up to Vérité, nobody pays me any attention. Today, though, there are more than a few glances cast my way. I’m sure my divorce has made for particularly juicy office gossip.

My face burns in shame as I step into the elevator. I check my reflection in the mirrored walls. The foundation is doing its job, hiding the flush that threatens to color my skin.

When the elevator doors trundle open, I’m confronted immediately by my father’s personal assistant, Debra. She wears an expression of professional indifference, greeting me with a terse nod.

“Ms. Beaumont. You’re needed in your father’s office.”

I nod, trying to steady my breathing as I follow Debra down the hallway. The summons is unexpected. I thought I’d just go straight to my office, tucked away in what amounts to a broom closet, and check my email to see what the hell my parents want from me. This means I’ll have to see them face to face.

When I step into my father’s office, I stop short. My breath catches in my throat.

My father is seated behind his desk with my mother standing behind him, positioned like a bodyguard. In the leather chair opposite him is Travis.

Travis Whitaker. I freeze in the doorway, unsure what to do. I have half a mind to turn and run. I never thought I’d have to see this man again.

Travis turns at the sound of my entrance. He meets my gaze and smiles, although there’s nothing friendly about the expression. The look on his face is triumphant, somehow. Satisfied. I don’t know what to make of that, but there’s no way it’s a good sign.

I look to my parents for answers. Neither of them are smiling. There’s a coldness in my mother’s stare that makes me feel like a child being scolded, like I’ve already done something wrong simply by existing. My father, on the other hand, is as impassive and unreadable as ever.