The logical part of her mind knew exactly what she should do. It had spent the long night drawing up exit strategies and outlining escape plans. She could not possibly marry a man who had reacted to her declaration of love in such a way. A man whom she did not trust, who, as he had said himself, she barely knew. What was she thinking? She was the result of a hasty marriage, had grown up watching her mother beg for the scraps of her father’s attention—and she had vowed she would never put herself in that position. How could she possibly sentence herself to the very same fate?
But the logical part of her mind was not the part that had dressed in this gown, allowed her hair to be teased into place or her makeup to be applied with such care by her attendants. The logical part of her had nothing to do with the serene bridal vision she saw reflected in her mirror. And the truth was that Tristanne had no idea what she should do—what she wanted to do.
Except…that was not the truth, was it?
Tristanne felt something click into place inside of her then, as realization finally dawned, the fog that had invaded her brain seeming, finally, to clear.
A woman who was appropriately appalled by the fact that Nikos had, very clearly, wanted nothing to do with her declaration would have done something about it. She might have left, called off the wedding, or found Nikos to demand that he explain himself. A woman who was not afraid to push the issue would…have pushed. But Tristanne was afraid. She was afraid that if pushed, Nikos would disappear. Hadn’t she been afraid of this very thing since the evening he had proposed? So instead, she had allowed herself to be carried along by the age-old rituals of the bride’s toilette. She had chosen what she wanted by pretending not to choose.
“You must come and see,” Vivienne said then, her thin, breathy voice breaking in to Tristanne’s reverie. “Look at this fine sight, Tristanne!”
Tristanne blinked, feeling as if she was waking from some kind of drugged sleep. She turned to find that her mother had moved across the room to peer out of one of the windows that looked out over the villa’s sculpted gardens where the civil ceremony was supposed to take place. Tristanne walked over to join her there, feeling the caress of her gown against her legs, the brush of her curls against her shoulders. Her skin felt too sensitive, as if Nikos was in front of her, that half smile on his dark face and molten gold in his eyes. Her body knew what it wanted. What it always wanted and, she feared, always would. No matter what.
She stood at her mother’s side and looked down into the sun-kissed garden. Guests were already taking their seats in the rows of chairs set to face the gleaming blue sea. White flowers flowed from baskets, and birds sang from above. It was a beautiful scene—as if ripped from the pages of some glossy wedding magazine and brought to life.
All that was missing was the groom.
“No, I am sure he will come,” Tristanne said at first, when the appointed time had come and gone. The guests’ murmurs had turned to open, speculative conversation that Tristanne could hear all too well from the windows above.
But he did not come. Fifteen minutes became thirty. Then forty-five minutes, then an hour, and still Nikos did not appear.
“He would not do this,” Tristanne said, her voice wooden. She had said it several times already—to her mother’s drawn and anxious face, to her increasingly furious brother—both before and after the necessary announcement had been made to the assembled guests.
She had shut herself down. Her stomach might heave, her head might spin, and she might be fighting back tears that seemed to come from her very soul—tears she was afraid to give into because she did not think she would ever stop—but she would not show it. She could not show it!
“Would he not?” Peter spat this time, whirling to face her. “He has no doubt lived for this moment for the past ten years!”
“You do not know what you’re talking about,” Tristanne said, automatically jumping to Nikos’s defense, even as she heard the desperate edge in her voice. How could this be happening? How could he have done this?
Please…she cried inside her mind. But she remembered that bitter undercurrent to his words. That bleak look in his eyes.
“It had to be Nikos Katrakis, didn’t it?” Peter sneered. His pacing had rendered him red-faced and slightly shiny, and his cold eyes slammed into her. Ordinarily she would heed these warning signs and try to maintain a safe distance from Peter’s rage—but she could not seem to move from the chair she had sunk into when the clock had struck an hour past the time she had been meant to walk down the aisle. She could only stare at him, willing herself not to break down.