Deceitful Vows by Brook Wilder
Chapter 2
Paige
Could my day get any worse?
I try not to think about it again as I drive to the Twin Rivers Country Club. I’ve driven past it countless times, but this is the first time I’m going in. My old neighborhood buffers the wealthy suburb of Twin Rivers from the NY Thruway. My dad would drive past here, and me and my little sister, Emma, would stare out the car window. Every time, I wished we were spending the day inside the huge brick mansion instead of running errands with Dad in grimy lower Manhattan.
Today, I drive toward the employee entrance by the service road. Through the line of poplars, stretch limos pull into the circular driveway and idle by a three-tiered fountain. Smiling, well-dressed people mill about, greeting one another with air kisses and handshakes.
Too late, I wonder if I should’ve worn a dress. Which one? My stretched-out floral knit or my denim boho maxi with the frayed hem? I’m here to work, not party.
“It’s been going on for a while. I was going to make him tell him you.” Carole’s smug voice drifts to my ear again, and I feel a sting in my nose as tears threaten to overwhelm me.
I snap back to the present, breathing heavily in my parked car. I’ll have time to cry later.
I slip a tampon into one of the pockets, just in case. Better make it two. Y’know what? Fuck it. I grab a handful, shove them in, and swallow another Advil for good measure before I get out of my beat-up Toyota. The door creaks and groans as I slam it shut, slip my car keys into a different pocket, and take my camera out of its bag, draping the strap around my neck.
I march toward the employee door, looking straight ahead.
As soon as I enter the building, I tilt my head all the way back and gaze at the ceiling. A trompe-l’oeil sun beams down on me as clouds drift by. I lift my camera and take a picture. If this is the employee entrance, what does the main hall look like?
I attract some curious looks from a few guests as I enter the carpeted hallway by the restrooms. Their reactions prompt me to hold my camera up like a badge. People look away while others continue to stare.
Suddenly, my heart stops, my feet stick to the floor, and I’m struck dumb by love. Well, lusty love.
The hottest guy I have ever seen appears out of nowhere, like he just stepped off the cover of GQ magazine. Holy fuck me first. I’ve never seen someone so gorgeous before—dark, thick hair, perfect skin, broad shoulders, and smoldering eyes. The dimple in his chin is killing me.
He has to be hung, or it just wouldn’t be fair. He stares at me with a mixture of curiosity and something else that I can’t quite put my finger on.
All I can do is freeze and stare at Mr. Fucking Gorgeous. A moment later, I squeak, “I’m the photographer.”
Without diminishing his smile, he motions to an older woman in her fifties nearby, and she walks toward me, wearing enough diamonds to stock a high-end jewelry store all by herself.
“Paige Reyes?” she asks, eyeing my messy bun. When I nod, she shoos Mr. Fucking Gorgeous away. “Anastasia Novikov. Follow me.”
I stumble a little when we enter the main hall, where more guests are arriving. If I hadn’t just walked through a door, I would’ve thought I was outside in a garden. The entire foyer is covered in fresh roses of all shades, from blinding white to deep red, creating an ombre effect from ceiling to floor. Reaching out, I brush my finger against a pink bloom.
Oh yeah, definitely real.
I catch up to Anastasia, who is moving quickly in her turquoise heels. “Should I take pictures of the guests as they arrive?” I ask.
She shakes her head stiffly. “Not everyone wants their picture taken.”
What the hell kind of wedding is this? But something about the way she says it makes me think better than to ask.
“Just focus on the bride and groom,” she continues. “Later, when everyone is seated for the reception, we will take pictures of the bridal party in the hall. I want pictures of the roses. They cost my husband Fyodor a hundred grand, and I want to rub it in his face.”
Damn. I should’ve asked for more money. The flowers are being paid more than I am.
Anastasia guides me toward the head table situated at the far end of the room. Periodically, I check out my surroundings; the men standing at attention near the walls hold my interest. Dressed in handsome dark suits, their sharp eyes watch everything that moves in the room. Tattoos decorate their hands and neck.
Yeah, definitely not a normal wedding.
But my eyes are searching for something else.
Check that, someone else. I scan for Mr. Fucking Gorgeous, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
Swallowing my disappointment, I turn my attention back to Anastasia and approach the cheerful bride. Her glossy brown hair cascades over her bare shoulders. A crown of diamonds creates a convincing halo above her head. Her satin dress accents her curves perfectly, and I can’t help but feel a wave of jealousy. I had a hard time picturing my wedding day with Tim. I took plenty of photos of other weddings. But somehow, I was never able to imagine my own.
And besides, I could never have a wedding as lavish as this. Heck, I can barely afford a reception at Taco Bell.
The bride greets an elderly couple, and they slip an envelope into a box decorated with gold wrapping paper. I hold up my camera, and the bride nods slightly. I didn’t realize she was watching me. I step closer, and the elderly couple embraces her on either side. The handsome groom steps forward to get into the picture.
Absolutely perfect.
For today, my mantra is to suck it up. This is how my life plays out. I smile as if I’m actually happy to be here and point the Nikon at the bride and the groom, and wish that Mr. Fucking Gorgeous was the one in the frame.
