Page 64 of The Wrong Groom

“I—I—I was just meeting G-Gabriel for lunch,” I tell him, my stammer coming out in full force. My cheeks burn.

He leans in, his lip curling in anger. When he speaks again, his voice is low, harsh. “No. What the hell do you think you’re doing with this charity bullshit?”

I swallow hard, my throat dry. “Wh-what?”

“Your ‘project,’” he says, lifting his free hand to form mocking air quotes around the word. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out? That you could sneak around behind my back like some disobedient child?”

“N-no. I thought you⁠—”

“You’re demeaning our brand,” he snaps. “Vérité is high fucking fashion. We don’t do this sort of thing, and you know it. Our designs belong on the runway in Milan, not some warehouse on a side street.”

I flinch. I try to even out my breathing, to calm the rapid thrum of my heart. “It’s not about V-Vérité,” I manage, although my voice is barely above a whisper. “This is… m-my own thing.”

“Your own thing?” He sneers. “There is no ‘your own thing.’ Everything you do reflects on this family. I thought you knew that.”

“I—I⁠—”

“And to top it all off, you stab your own father in the back. Tried to go around me, did you? Get your new husband on board so that I can’t say no?”

My eyes widen. Oh god. Gabriel must have said something. He must’ve mentioned the project. My lungs seize, and for a heartbeat, I can’t find air.

“It wasn’t like that,” I protest, but he’s having none of it.

“You stepped over the line.” His gaze sweeps up and down, resting on my face. He doesn’t make eye contact, though. His nose wrinkles. “And you’re clearly not taking much pride in your appearance.”

For a second, I’m confused. Then it hits me. I’m not wearing foundation to cover up my freckles. I haven’t worn it in a while, actually, since Gabriel told me that the freckles suit me. It’s been a major boost to my confidence. I still struggle with insecurity about them on some days, but whenever I do, that conversation replays in my head.

Gabriel’s compliment sits in a specific part of my mind like a shield against the old voices that used to tear me down, my father’s included. But right now, under his cold, scrutinizing gaze, that shield feels paper-thin. My mouth falls open, and my hand rises to cover my nose as if it has instincts of its own, as if by hiding that small part of me, I can make myself invisible, smaller, safer.

I hate that I’m doing it. I hate that even after everything, even after Gabriel’s kind words and the little confidence I’ve built, I still default to this. I still try to disappear at the first criticism from my father.

“You are a representative of the Beaumont family. Just because you’re married doesn’t let you off the hook. Get your shit together, Alexis. Do better.”

The lump forms in my throat so fast I can barely swallow. Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them back. I can’t cry. Not here. Not where he can see.

Crying is contemptible too. A weakness. A weapon he’s used against me more times than I can count. So I lock my jaw tight and force the tears back, even though my vision blurs for a second and my throat burns from the effort.

My father doesn’t wait for my excuses or my apologies. He releases my arm with such force that I have to stagger back a step to keep my balance. Without a backward glance, he storms off toward the elevator.

I stand frozen for a long moment, my body buzzing with leftover adrenaline. The phantom sting of his grip lingers on my arm. It takes every ounce of willpower to swallow down the tears, to steady my breathing.

When I finally approach the host’s stand, my cheeks are hot, my skin flushed red with embarrassment. I know it shows. Should’ve worn foundation, whispers the familiar, cutting voice in my head that sounds like my father’s. Then no one would be able to tell.

The host looks up and greets me with a smile, apparently oblivious to how upset I am. “Good afternoon. Do you have a reservation?”

“Y-yes,” I manage, my voice wavering slightly. I clear my throat and try again. “I’m meeting Gabriel Thorne. He should already be here.”

The host checks his list and nods. “Of course, right this way.”

I follow him into the restaurant, my gaze trained on the hardwood floor. Beyond the windows that ring the room, I know, is a spectacular view of the ocean and the surrounding cityscape. I can’t bring myself to look at it. If I look up, I’m certain everyone will see how rattled I am, how distraught.

He hates your project. He hates it. I could hardly believe the vitriol in my father’s voice. I’ve certainly seen him that angry before, but it’s been a long time.

And then I see Gabriel. He’s seated at a table near the window, looking out over the skyline. When we reach the table, he turns his head toward me, his gaze warming. He gets to his feet to greet me.

I can’t stop myself from flinching. The sudden movement startles me. I’m on edge after the encounter with my father, my nerves shot. Gabriel’s expression shifts immediately. His brow furrows in concern, but he doesn’t say anything while the host is still lingering nearby.

Gabriel pulls out the chair for me, and I sit down heavily. The host pours me a glass of ice water, then leaves the two of us alone. It didn’t seem like he noticed anything was off, but it definitely hasn’t escaped Gabriel’s sharp gaze.