Just look at me and Wesley.
She pondered this as she walked through the halls of Buchanan Manor. She felt . . . weirdly better after confessing how she felt to Wesley. She’d been turned down, and that hurt. And he was leaving her, and that hurt, too. But it was out in the open. She didn’t have to hide how she felt anymore. It felt like another mask she’d been wearing all this time, and now it was gone and she felt good. Her heart hurt, and she’d cried bitter tears last night after the rehearsal dinner (and a few when Gretchen and Hunter had exchanged sweet looks with each other) but today she felt cleansed. Whole, hurting, but cleansed. If he didn’t love her back, well, she couldn’t make him. And if Gretchen was having second thoughts about getting married, then she needed to tell Hunter before things got too far along and became messier than they already were.
The house had been decorated with delicate holiday touches, and every table she passed was filled with roses. Purple roses, pink roses, red roses. They must have had some sort of significance to Gretchen and Hunter, though Daphne didn’t know what it could be. Maybe Gretchen had developed a thing for roses. Maybe Hunter sent Gretchen a lot of roses when they were dating.
God, if Gretchen had changed her mind about marrying Hunter? He’d be devastated. She’d met the man last night at the rehearsal dinner for the first time. He . . . hadn’t been what she’d been expecting. The scars were deeper and more brutal than she’d originally thought, and the man under them was stern and rather unforgiving-looking. It made her feel like a naughty child when she was in his presence, for all that he was probably only a few years older than Gretchen. But it had also been very clear to Daphne that he fucking worshipped Gretchen with all of his being. Every look he cast in her direction, every possessive touch, every gesture, all of it made it clear that he was utterly addicted to Gretchen Petty and would do anything for her.
Which made it even more confusing that things had gone wrong somehow.
The endless maze of halls that made up Buchanan Manor were cordoned off with red velvet ropes so guests wouldn’t stray, and Daphne found herself rushing toward the back of the house. There were massive double doors that servants opened, and a covered enclosed walkway that kept guests safe (well, relatively) from the blizzard that had decided to storm. She headed inside the big greenhouse that had—for some reason—been elected to be where the vows would be recited. As she walked in, she was hit by a wall of heat. A generator chugged somewhere in the distance, and fans blew warm air on the guests in the massive tent. Folding chairs had been set up in neat rows, and about half the chairs were full. At the front, a rose-encrusted archway was starting to wilt under the heaters, and two men stood on the small decorative stairs below the arch. One was Hunter, and he seemed to be arguing with another man who wore a suit. In the front row, she made out Wesley’s broad shoulders. He’d shown up after all, despite the blowout from yesterday. She was a little surprised. He’d braved holiday traffic and the driving snow just to be her platonic date.
It would have been sweet if it had meant something to him. Instead, it just made her ache. They were just friends and that was all they would ever be. The bittersweet disappointment returned, and she marched up the aisle, heading for the groom.
“Audrey? You’re not dressed?” someone called out.
Whoops. Daphne was still in her jeans and not wearing makeup and didn’t have her hair fixed. Of course they’d mistake her for Audrey. She held up a finger, indicating she needed a moment. That seemed easier than explaining. And she rushed to Hunter’s side and touched his sleeve.
He turned, and his ugly, scarred face focused on her. Immediately, he went still. “What’s wrong?”
“I know you’re not supposed to see the bride before the wedding, but Gretchen won’t come out of her room to get dressed. She’s crying and she won’t talk to anyone. I think something’s really wrong.”
Hunter paled and then raced down the aisle.
***
Gretchen’s nose wouldn’t stop running. Sure, it might have had something to do with the fact that she couldn’t stop crying, but the nose dripping was really bothering her. Taking the delicate mirror on her makeup table, she studied her reflection before wadding Kleenex into a nose plug and then stuffing it into one nostril. The tuft of tissue stuck out underneath her nose like a ridiculous flower, and she shoved a matching tissue into the other nostril.
The woman that stared back at her from the other side of the mirror was a mess. Her hair was a nest of tangles, her face ruddy from crying. Her nose was stretched out from the tissue, and her wedding dress was a crumpled heap around her shoulders, because it wouldn’t fasten in the back. She’d thrown her veil on at some point, and it hung crookedly over one side of her head.
She looked ridiculous, but what did it matter?
Her eyes felt hot and swollen, and Gretchen gave her reflection another unhappy look before pushing the mirror away. Of course she looked like hell. It was just icing on top of the terrible shit-cake that had turned out to be her wedding, the wedding she’d tried so hard to make perfect and had failed miserably at in every aspect.
Someone knocked at the door to her dressing room, and she felt a surge of irritation. Why couldn’t they leave her alone to have her pity party? “For the millionth time, go away.”
She heard a soft murmur on the other side of the door and what sounded like people leaving. Good. She knew all her bridesmaids and best friends were crowded outside the door but . . . she didn’t want to see them right now. She didn’t want to see anyone. She put her head down on the arm of the chaise she was moping on and closed her eyes.