Chapter 4: The wedding Day

Alexander

It’s my wedding day. . .or supposed to be, and yet, here I am, in my suite, refusing to move a muscle, to dress up and appear in church as the groom. My suit hangs neatly in the closet, untouched, while I sit on the edge of the bed, head in my hands.

It’s her. The girl from the club.

Evangeline.

I call her angel because she sure as hell looks like one. Soft brown eyes that naturally remain wide, always demanding. Damning. Look into her eyes for a second too long and that is all you think about for the rest of your life.

Those eyes are replaying in my mind constantly. They have been replaying in my mind since the day I asked her to leave—two days ago.

I didn’t mean to.

I was afraid, scared of falling too deeply with a woman I just met, scared that she was too good to be true. And then I messed it all up, sent her away without any way of reaching out to her.

I shouldn’t be thinking about her. I should be thinking about my wedding, about my bride. But I can’t, I simply cannot get my mind off that woman.

The alarm beeps for the millionth time today and I run my hands through my hair, fingers digging into my scalp. I’m late to my own wedding. I’m late to my own fucking wedding all because of a woman I met at a club.

The alarm rings again and sweat trickles down my face, my throat constricting with a lump.

What will my father say? What will he do?

And my mother, how will this make her feel if I walk away from a wedding she’s been planning to perfection from the moment this arrangement was made?

And then the media, they will tear me apart.

Why am I not stopping to think about the woman I’m supposed to marry? Why is she the last person on my mind?

Maybe because you hate her—my subconscious reminds me.

I guess so.

My eyes move to the clock. Fuck. I’m two hours late.

“Fuck!”

It's not long before I start hearing  frantic footsteps approaching my suite. The clicking of heels against the tiled floor is unmistakable. It’s her, I know it’s her. And she’s running to me. I can tell from the frantic sound.

It suddenly goes silent. One second, two seconds, three seconds. The loud bangings come. It’s even more frantic than the footsteps. 

I gulp, my hand tight in my hair.

“Alexander! I know you’re in there!” Chanel’s voice is shrill. “Open this door, for fuck’s sake! Why are you doing this to me?!”

Chanel fucking Gomez.

Her voice is even more frantic than her running and banging. I know it has nothing to do with me, but everything to do with her pride, with the embarrassment she’ll face if her groom doesn’t show up at her wedding. 

She screams my name over, and over, and over, but I don't have it in me to answer. I simply stare absentmindedly at the door, my heart pounding erratically with each knock she delivers.

The door beeps open, and I chuckle, knowing they've intimidated the hotel staff into giving them a master key.

It’s my mother who storms in first, her vicious eyes searching the space, probably checking to see if I’m here with a woman. When she satisfies her curiosity, she turns to me, pinning a glare. “What are you doing here, Alexander Creed?”

“Do you both lack the concept of privacy, mum? Chanel?” I retort, my voice flat. “If I didn’t open the door, shouldn’t that mean I don’t want to see anyone?”

“It’s your wedding day!” she snaps, her fury escalating. “And this is all you have to say to your bride, who you’ve kept waiting at the altar? Get dressed! Now!”

I rise from the bed, meeting her glare. “I’d like to talk to Chanel,” I say calmly, “alone.”

“I. . .” My mother goes to argue, Chanel steps forward, cutting her off.

Chanel’s face is tight with anger and humiliation when she mutters, “It’s okay, mum. I’ve got it.”

My mother hesitates but she doesn’t have a choice. She storms out, slamming the door behind her, filling the space with echoes of silence. The silence lasts for a brief moment, with me and Chanel staring at one another.

Her mouth parts for words, I beat her to it. “You make a beautiful bride.” 

She chuckles, shaking her head, her arms crossed over her chest. “Are you bailing out?” She asks. “Why? Because of this?” Her purse opens and pictures fly. The printed images are on the ground, reflecting my smile while I watched Evangeline dance. 

A small smile tugs the corner of my mouth. I wane it, reminding myself that now is not the right time.

Chanel is quick to notice my smile. She chuckles, incredulous. “This is because of her? You cannot seriously mean to call off our wedding over a girl you met at your bachelor party, Alexander Creed.”

“This is what I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. . .” I whisper, guilt almost weighing on me.

“Her?” she spits, her lips curling in disdain.

“Yes.”

“The girl you met at a club?”

“Yes,” I repeat, my jaw tightening.

Her laugh is cold and humorless. “What about her?”

“She. . .She’s a beautiful woman. And beyond her beauty, she was a woman who made me extremely happy in such a short amount of time.” When I say the words, guilt is suddenly lifted off my shoulders, replaced by pride, a flutter in my chest.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Chanel snaps, her voice rising. “She’s beautiful? She made you happy? So? What has that got to do with me, Alexander?”

“Chanel…”

“What?!”

“I slept with her.”

Her face darkens instantly, her eyes narrowing. “I know.” 

“What?” 

“What?” she laughs. “You think you can hide anything from me? This girl. . .she’s nothing special, you have to understand that she’s just another girl.”

Humming, my head bobs in quick nods. “Perhaps she’s nothing special to just anyone, but to me, she is special enough to want to make me walk away from this arrangement.”

“You’re breaking up with me?” Her voice breaks.

“We were never in a relationship, Chanel.” I state firmly.

“And you suddenly realize that now? Because you fucked a girl I paid to get you into bed?”

Air leaves my lungs—literally and metaphorically. I stumble, my head spinning into dizziness. My stance wavers, my throat tightening. “What. . .What the fuck did you just say?” I ask with a shaky voice.

“I paid her!” Chanel screams, furious at me for falling apart over a girl I just met. “I just. . .I wanted you to be happy before we do this. And I wanted to have something over your fucking head!”

“Chanel. . .” My voice shakes with disbelief, my eye momentarily drifting to the pictures scattered across the floor.

“I didn’t think you’d fall for her in just a day,” she says, her voice mocking. “Is that all your heart is worth? A measly twenty thousand dollars?”

“Chanel!”

“What?!”

“Say that again,” I growl, stepping toward her. “Say it again!”

“I wanted you to grovel at my feet, Alexander,” she sneers. “I wanted her to put you in a compromising position so I’d have evidence. Because I saw how miserable this arrangement made you, and I feared you’d walk away. I needed you to stay.”

My tongue darts out and licks my lips, my eyes slow as they open and close in a blink. “So you paid her to seduce me?”

“Yes,” she admits with pride. “And I’m telling you now, the pictures I have are explicit. Vivid. They show you, balls deep in her. So, you either get on your knees, beg me to take you back, and walk down that aisle with me, or you prepare yourself for damage control.”

“You’re despicable,” I hiss, my body trembling with rage.

“I love you,” she counters, her voice breaking.

“You wouldn’t do that to someone you love!” I shout. “You ridicule me, humiliate me… You’re a sick fuck. And you wonder why I’ve never been able to stand your pitiful ass.”

Chanel falls silent, her mouth opening and closing, yet unable to form any words. Finally, she whispers, “You know what’s at stake. Are you willing to risk your image over this!”

“Yes!” I scream the loudest I can, physically fighting the emotions threatening to surge through me.

“Alexander! You cannot choose a girl over your reputation, over me!”

I laugh. It is sharp, short-lived, careless. Chanel gulps, stepping back from me.

“I will never marry you.” The words fall out in breathless whispers. “That girl. . .Evangeline, I’ll choose her a million times over before I ever consider you, Chanel. Get out. Go and do your worst.”