Page 3 of Not His Bride

The absurdity hits me sideways, and I don’t bother hiding it. “Second place in what?”

He looks at me, dead level. “Nation’s sexiest bachelors. Your ranking is fifth.”

I actually have to pause. “That’s a factor for you.”

Phillip shrugs, unbothered. “My Debbie deserves the best.”

There’s a lot to unpack in that statement, but I don’t have time to dwell on it. If I want a deal at all, I need to lock in.

“Lilith is what you’re offering, then.”

He nods once. “Only option on the table.”

I try to place my heart rate. It feels off.

I want Debbie. That hasn’t changed.

But wanting Debbie and needing her are two different things.

Lilith still has the Jovi name. She still comes with the family holdings, the connections, the properties, and every door that opens when our names become legally tied together. The merger doesn’t become less profitable because I’m marrying the wrong sister.

“Fine, Lilith, then,” I concede. “I’ll hire Lilith a stylist and have her focus on keeping house and organizing parties. She’s no Debbie, but I’ll make it work.”

I turn toward the ballroom, and movement near the curtained edge of the alcove catches my eye. It’s Debbie. She’s barely a yard away, her phone in her hand, held out like she was taking a picture.

For a second, I look at her and think about what I almost had. Then I turn away. I chose the deal.

Chapter 2

Lilith

The mirror is too large. It reflects everything: the pale walls, the sheen on my skirt, the way my hands won’t stop pressing so flat into my lap that the silk clings.

I keep my eyes on myself, mostly because it’s easier than making eye contact with anyone else. Heather stands behind me. She pins pieces of my hair up and makes small talk that isn’t really for me, but more for herself. She’s my maid of honor because I don’t have friends, and I barely even know her. I had asked Debbie to be my maid of honor, but she said she looked better sitting in the front row. Besides, she said she didn’t want to match anyone, and being a bridesmaid would mean matching other women.

Heather tells me details about the flowers—perfectly white, in case I was worried—details about the aisle and the lighting, how it makes the ballroom glow blue at the edges. I don’t care about any of it. All I care is that I’m marrying Gallagher Cortez. The Gallagher Cortez. Not some imitation, either.

Four weeks ago, I wasn’t even engaged. Now there are three hundred people downstairs waiting to watch me marry him.

Hey, it’s happened.

A few years ago, I thought he was going to be at a banquet for a children’s hospital. I paid the plate fee and spent hours of my life searching for Gallagher at the event, only to find out I had misread the article. I read some dude’s name, Golton Calligan, as Gallagher Cortez. Excitement and all that.

“I saw them bring the bouquets up,” she says. “They’re exactly as you wanted.”

Her reflection in the mirror looks calm. My face is shiny at the brow, so I imagine I don’t look calm, but maybe that’s the shape of anxiety. I haven’t met my fiancé yet. Is that pathetic?

To be fair, we’ve both been busy. Gallagher’s been traveling for work, and between the wedding and everything I already had going on, so have I. Somehow, four weeks passed without either of us finding time to sit in the same room.

She does one more pass, smoothing the sides. My dark hair is pinned so that a few loose curls will fall over my shoulder when the whole thing is finished. I own very little jewelry, but I do wear this black choker every day. I touch it, pulse-quick, as if it might steady me.

Heather notices, or pretends not to. She chatters on, “You’ll be stunning. The light downstairs is perfect.”

A knock at the door slices through the room.

Heather sets her hands on my shoulders before going to answer it.

She pulls the door open a few inches. It’s Gallagher.