Page 63 of The Wrong Groom

Over the past few weeks, as I’ve been working on this project, I’ve found inspiration easy to come by. I’ve been sketching like crazy, daydreaming, ideas for both fashion designs and the workshop space popping into my head near-constantly. It’s like a spark has been lit inside me, one I didn’t even realize had gone out. For so long, I’ve been tethered to what everyone else wanted. Now, I can finally think about what I want, with none of the anxiety that usually accompanies those kinds of thoughts.

My phone trills in my pocket, breaking the silence in the empty warehouse. I pull it out and glance at the screen to read the text that just popped up.

GABRIEL: Hey, how’s the warehouse?

I can’t help but grin. Lately, we’ve been communicating so easily, texting back and forth often. I like it a lot more than the stilted, overly-professional calls I used to place to his office whenever I needed to talk to him. His secretary has been a bit standoffish and rude toward me, and calling the office felt daunting, knowing I was going to face her hostility. I don’t think she likes me much.

Now, though, I have a direct line to Gabriel. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the reason behind the change.

Gabriel has only touched me once more since the night he went down on me, the night he made me come until I could barely breathe—still the most incredible orgasms of my life. He didn’t fuck me the second time, either. He used his hand, teased my nipples with his teeth and his tongue, and whispered things that made shivers run up my spine.

It was unbelievable. My body is so responsive to his touch, like I’m a finely-tuned instrument and he’s a maestro. And now that that line has been crossed, it’s easier to be around him. Some of the tension has been let out of our relationship. The air no longer feels thick and charged when we’re together.

My fingers fly across my phone’s screen as I type out a response.

ME: It’s great! I think this is the one!

GABRIEL: That’s awesome. You feel like grabbing lunch to celebrate?

ME: Sounds good. Where do you want to go?

GABRIEL: Meet me at Liora. I have a reservation.

I know the place well. Liora is an LA institution, a restaurant on the top floor of a skyscraper in Century City with a great view of the Pacific. I’ve been there several times before. It’s fairly close to Vérité’s offices, so it’s a staple for my family.

ME: Sure. On my way.

I call a car. The driver arrives quickly, and I slide into the back seat. The familiar sights of Los Angeles pass by as we head toward Century City.

Liora. The restaurant holds a certain weight in my mind, tied to memories of carefully orchestrated lunches and dinners with my parents. Vérité’s meetings with prospective clients often ended here, and even as a child, I’d felt the suffocating pressure to perform. To sit straight, smile politely, and reflect the curated image of perfection they demanded. A silent participant, but a participant all the same.

For once, though, this isn’t about Vérité or the family name. It’s just lunch with Gabriel. Nothing more, nothing less.

I repeat the words like a mantra as I step into the lobby. It’s just lunch at a nice restaurant. You’re fine.

The building’s lobby is just as I remember. Marble floors polished to a mirror sheen, tall glass windows letting in muted light, and an elegant, minimalist design that whispers wealth without shouting it.

I head for the elevators, the click of my low heels echoing in the cavernous space. A group of sharply dressed professionals lingers near the doors, their conversation low and clipped. I slip into the waiting throng, keeping my head down, avoiding eye contact.

When the elevator chimes and the doors trundle open, I shuffle in with the others. The ascent is smooth and silent, but my heart pounds louder with every floor we pass. Sweat gathers on my palms, my fingers curling into fists at my sides.

Relax, I tell myself. This isn’t a performance. You’re supposed to enjoy it.

The elevator chimes again, and the doors slide open. The group inside disperses, and I follow. As I step out of the elevator, I glance to the side and see him.

My father.

He stands just a few paces away, tall and sharp in his tailored charcoal suit, his face carved into the familiar lines of disdain. His eyes lock on mine.

“Oh,” I say, startled. He must be here for a business lunch with someone.

I’m expecting him to smile genially, as he normally does when we’re in public. Instead, his brow furrows, a brief scowl flitting across his face. He starts toward me, and I resist the urge to turn and flee back into the open elevator.

He’s pissed about something. I don’t know what, but it’s written all over his face.

When he reaches me, he grabs me tightly by the forearm and pulls me away from the host’s stand, out of earshot of the well-dressed people who are waiting for their tables.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growls.