The Villain (Boston Belles, #2)(40)

“You mean buy her all eight rings the jeweler has flown here from Mumbai overnight?” She blinked, staring at me as though I grew an extra head and attempted to cover it with a decorative fruit bowl. “They cost half a million apiece.”

“And…?” I screwed my fingers into my eye sockets. Peopling was by far more exhausting than running a marathon.

“And nothing. It will be done, sir.”

With Stripper Barbie out of the way, I turned back to my brother and lawyer, ready to continue our conversation about Arrowsmith. They both glared at me with a look not much different than the one I saw on Ms. Brandt’s face.

“What now?” I barked.

“You could’ve just gone with any ring,” Devon muttered. “Yet you chose all of them.”

All and nothing were the same things. Essentially, I still didn’t make a choice.

“What’s your point?” I demanded.

“His point”—Hunter grinned, snatching his coffee from my desk and standing—“is that you, my dear brother, are about to get punched right in the feels. Bubble-wrap that black heart of yours because shit’s about to get real, and I’m going to grab a front-row seat when you finally realize you are not the soulless bastard you think you are.”

“Save me a place next to you.” Devon fist-bumped my brother.

I kicked them both out.

Idiots.





After a month of being ignored by the groom every time I called and texted him, I showed up to my wedding tucked in a black limo with Belle and Sailor in tow.

It was a surprisingly sunny day. Especially considering winter bled into spring, and the persistent rain refused to relent in what the local weathermen described as Boston’s longest and gloomiest winter to date.

Since I was the one doing all the planning, I made sure the wedding was tailored to my personality and preferences alone.

Despite the fact Aisling had told me Cillian hated fruit in his dessert, the cake was a six-tier chiffon sponge cake frosted with white chocolate and decorated with pomegranate. The venue was St. Luke’s, the Protestant church I’d attended since birth even though I knew Cillian was raised Irish Catholic.

I wore a sheath, pearl-hued gown and had enough hairspray to put a dent in the ozone layer. I felt ridiculously flammable and gave myself a mental memo not to get close to smokers and candles.

With the clear intention to signal my future husband I was not to be tamed, I chose wildflowers for my bouquet.

I decided on having a church service only. No party. No big hurrah. My feelings toward Kill were as strong as ever, but I wasn’t going to do all the work for him. If he wanted a successful marriage—which I doubted he did—he was going to have to put in the effort, too.

A part of me doubted Cillian would even show up to the wedding. After all, he went back to ignoring my existence quickly after I accepted his offer. If it weren’t for Devon, or the realtors, bankers, jewelers, and personal shoppers he sent my way, fawning over me, I’d think he’d gotten cold feet.

Should’ve known better.

Cillian Fitzpatrick never got cold feet.

It was everything else about him that was made of ice.

I sat in the limo in front of the church. Mom and Dad came from the suburbs. They were disoriented by my shotgun wedding but happy, nonetheless. They knew how hurt I’d been over Paxton and figured I decided to marry my good friend Aisling’s older brother because we’d always had this amazing, nurturing connection.

That was the story I fed them, anyway, and that was the version they chose to eat up. Dad, who had just recovered from a knee surgery, couldn’t walk me down the aisle.

I’d found it to be an omen more than a coincidence. I’d asked Hunter to do the honor of giving me away (“Personally, I’d prefer to hand you over to Vlad the Impaler, but I’m too scared for my life to deny Kill anything”).

“Knock, knock.” Ash’s thin, church bells voice rang in the air. She flung the door to the limo open and slid in, wearing a blood-red bridesmaid dress.

“Hey.” I mustered a smile, realizing I was clutching Belle’s hand in mine a bit too tightly. I let go before my sister’s hand needed amputated due to gangrene.

Ash handed me a crown of wildflowers.

“A good luck charm for the bride. A Fitzpatrick tradition.”

“Is this from Kill?” My eyebrows shot up. I thought about the poisonous flowers he’d plucked from my hair all those years ago. Ash shook her head, turning a shade of maroon that went well with her dress.

“My bad. I should’ve clarified. I made it for you. It’s an Irish custom that the bride braids the crown in her hair on her own. Brings good luck to the marriage.”

“My hair is harder than a rock right now,” I pointed out.

“Is this bitch for real?” Belle snatched the flowered tiara from Aisling’s hands. “Sis, you need all the luck you can get. You’re putting this thing on if it’s the last thing you do. And while you’re at it, here.” Belle dropped the tiara in my lap, rummaging in her clutch. She found an orange bottle of pills, took one, and shoved it into my mouth.

“What’s that?” I murmured around the tablet.

“A little pick-me-up.”

I swallowed, weaving wisps of my hair into the crown of flowers while Belle put a glass of champagne to my lips.