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"You have to pick something," she says. "It doesn't have to be your favorite. It just has to be something people can eat without filing complaints." Her mouth twitches. "If we're going through with this, we might as well serve food we actually like."

I take the bite she offers me.

It's sweet. The lemon gives a bright, clean flavor.

It's not terrible.

Damn it.

"Well?" Everly demands from across the room, approving the string quartet with a signature.

"It's fine."

The caterer beams and writes it down like I just issued a royal decree.

A second fork appears. Salted caramel espresso.

"No."

Aria tilts her head. "You didn't even taste it."

"I don't need coffee in cake."

"You literally drink coffee like it's medicinal."

"That doesn't mean I want it in dessert."

Everly groans. "How are you this difficult before noon? Are you sure you don't want to back out, Aria? No one who knows him would blame you."

What the hell. "Do you want this wedding or not, Everly? Let's not try to scare away the bride," I say to my sister who's offering my fiancée a way out.

I return to my laptop.

What I'm not saying aloud: none of this would bother me nearly as much if Aria weren't in the middle of it.

She should be overwhelmed. She should look misplaced.

Instead, she looks like she's trying.

Listening. Offering opinions when asked. And not once does she demand the center of it.

It gets under my skin.

Finally the vendors start filtering out, the office smells faintly of buttercream and florals and money I might as well have just set in the middle of the room and burned. In one year's time, Aria and I will be filing for divorce. None of this matters.

Aria is by the conference table now, gathering printouts into neat piles—still acting as my assistant, though that word stopped fitting weeks ago.

Then her gaze catches on something in the corner.

I know what she sees before I turn.

Blanket.

Pillow.

Fuck.

The ones I use when I sleep here instead of going upstairs. I forgot to put them away.