Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
No, Mom.
Hell no.
You’d have a better chance of getting a girl to grin when she’s on death row.
Shaking my head, I look at the black bag holding the torn remains of my dress. I still haven’t dragged it outside to the trash where it belongs.
Guilt is weirdly powerful.
That gawdy thing cost over ten thousand dollars—yes, my stomach churns just thinking about it—and maybe I shouldn’t have cut it up like a paper snowflake. If it was intact, I could’ve donated it, at least.
But aside from it being the most uncomfortable dress I’ve ever worn, it really was a prison suit in white.
Desperate times.
Desperate measures for erasing a cruel symbol of what they almost forced me to do, and I can’t feel too bad about tearing through the beautiful silk. Why not when I just cut the rest of my life to ribbons?
And because I must hate myself and I want to rub salt into a fresh wound, I read through some of the Twitter posts about my ‘big day disaster.’
DCToiletScrubber: The look on the senator’s face with his noodle of a son stranded at the altar #WeddingFail #EmberlyPatilla
Lilmeatballgirl84: OMG. OMG still cannot believe she left him on their WEDDING DAY??? Is she on drugs? #WeddingFail
Tungstentastesgoodsometimes: Holy f_king wedding fail. Winnie Emberly does NOT know good dick. I would DIE for a ride on that stallion.
The last inane post just had to include a photo of Holden with his million-dollar grin, looking all handsome in a navy suit, his dark-blond hair combed back.
His sharp face beams its ‘I’m better than you’ energy at the camera.
His favorite expression I’ve seen a thousand times.
Several people comment with fire gifs and a large dog drooling.
At least the hashtags haven’t hit the main trending lists. Yet.
I mean, it’s not like Dad or Senator Corban are A-list celebrities.
Sure, Dad was elected to his second term and he acts like everyone in Missouri knows who he is, but that’s not actually the case. He can walk down the street without being mobbed. You ask the average person about Carroll Emberly, and they’ll give you a puzzled look unless they’re a huge election dork or a high-powered lawyer.
But this wedding was his thing. His baby.
Dad and Holden’s father cooked up the arrangement because they smelled opportunity if their political dynasties could merge. Never mind what works best for the kids getting married, because we apparently live in the seventeenth century.
Holden, though, he has a little more of a cult following. Mostly on Instagram, where he draws women who worship the young and rich and sickeningly spoiled like frogs on a pond.
One night, he spent half the evening in his DMs, just laughing.
I couldn’t decide if I was more icked out by his rudeness, mocking his fans, or scared he’d hooked up with a few of them.
My skin crawls just thinking about it now.
Another red flag I ignored.
And the idea that I had the nerve to detonate my life and dodge a screaming bullet feels surreal.
This can’t be me.
This can’t be the girl who was called into Dad’s office last year when he suggested an engagement and agreed with a nervous smile and not a single word of protest.
Although, to be fair, this situation feels more like a direct hit than a near miss.
Maybe the bullet wasn’t Holden after all—it was running away and becoming estranged from the entire world I used to know.
Figures.
Honestly, I feel bad about my big promises to Archer, everything I said about recommending his cabins to people in high places.
I mean, I was desperate. I would’ve promised him the moon just to keep my pretty hideout place for a few more days.
There’s something about this place that makes me feel like I belong in a stupid, entirely irrational way. An oasis in the steaming crater carved from my life.
But after what I pulled, I’ll be lucky if anyone in the old DC crowd ever says more than two words to me. And those two words will probably be “the fuck?”
Which would be justified, I suppose. In their world, it isn’t about pissing off people personally.
It’s about pissing off the wrong people with the right connections. Once you’ve angered the petty cannibal gods of American royalty, you become radioactive to anyone who fears their wrath.
My old friends and coworkers would never understand conscience. Or turning down the perfect paper marriage for the silly dream of having a husband someday I might actually want.
Honestly, they don’t think about marriage much at all when they’re so focused on money and careers. In DC, you either move up fast or get buried. Random hookups in hotels with people who are probably clean are as romantic as it gets.
Because, you know, that’s less of a career risk than marrying the wrong person.
But if they did think about marriage, the kind of political marriage I could’ve had with Holden probably feels like a dream come true.