Dear EX

Nina's POV

"If you pull that zipper any harder, Nina, I’m going to be sewn into this dress until my first anniversary."

Amelia’s laugh echoed through the bridal suite, warm and bright over the classical music playing from the speakers.

"I'm trying to make sure you don't burst out of twenty thousand dollars worth of silk before you even reach the altar," I said, yanking the hidden zipper up to the top with a sharp zip. "Which, considering Mom's budget, would be a national tragedy."

Amelia turned around in the mirror, smoothing the ivory silk over her hips. "You're just mad I made you wear emerald green."

"I'm mad because green makes me look like a festive tree."

"You look gorgeous and you know it," she said, reaching out to grab both of my hands. Her smile softened, her dark eyes shining with sudden, heavy tears. "Thank you for being here, Nina. Seriously."

I swallowed down the lump forming in my throat. "Where else would I be? You’re my sister."

"Yeah, but I know you," she whispered, squeezing my fingers tight. "You hate big crowds, you hate fancy pretension, and you’ve been running on three hours of sleep trying to keep Mom from firing the florist."

"The florist wanted to put yellow roses at the altar, Ames. That's practically a declaration of war."

She laughed, a small, choked sound. "I just want you to be happy, Nina. Real happiness. Not just pretending for my sake."

"I'm happy," I lied smoothly, adjusting a tiny pearl pinned into her hair updo. "Now stop looking at me like you're about to sob. You'll ruin your foundation."

"Think about something ugly," Amelia muttered, wiping the corner of her eye. "Quick."

"Mom's feather hat."

Amelia burst out laughing just as the heavy brass doors of the suite swung open.

"What are you two cackling about?" Mom bustled inside, her arms full of garment bags and high-society anxiety. She wore enough diamonds to blind a person and a hat that looked like a bird had crashed into her head. "Nina, stop making your sister laugh! Her cheeks are going to turn red for the photos!"

"I'm keeping her relaxed, Mom," I said.

"You look like you're going to a funeral," Mom snapped, sweeping over to fix Amelia’s veil. "Smiles! We need smiles today! Damien's entire family is downstairs. The Blake family doesn't do frowns."

"Right, the famous Blakes," I murmured, rolling my eyes.

"Don't start," Mom warned, narrowing her eyes at me. "Damien’s younger brother flew in from London this morning. He barely made it in time for the ceremony. I want you on your best behavior when you meet him."

"What's his name again?" I asked casually, adjusting my corsage.

"Roman," Amelia answered, checking her reflection one last time. "Damien says he's kind of a recluse. Runs their European logistics or something. They aren't super close."

"Great. Another billionaire snob," I muttered.

"Nina!" Mom gasped.

"I'm joking!" I threw my hands up. "I'll be nice! I promise!"

The wedding coordinator poked her head into the room, tapping her watch. "Two minutes, ladies! Bridal party to the grand hall!"

Amelia took a deep breath, her face turning pale. She looked at me, her fingers reaching out. "Stay close to me?"

"Always," I said softly, taking her hand. "You're going to cross that floor, marry the love of your life, and then we're going to steal the top tier of the wedding cake."

"Deal."

We stepped out into the grand hallway of the St. Regis. The air smelled like expensive lilies, vintage champagne, and crisp air conditioning. The massive double doors at the end of the aisle stood closed, hiding the three hundred wealthy guests waiting inside.

The music shifted. The heavy organ notes began to rumble through the floorboards.

"Position!" the coordinator whispered, pushing me toward the front.

The double doors groaned open.

Bright light flooded the hallway. Hundreds of heads turned toward us. The ballroom was an absolute sea of black tuxedos, glittering gowns, and towering floral arrangements.

I took my first step, holding my bouquet tight against my ribs, keeping my eyes fixed straight ahead on the altar.

Damien stood beside the priest, looking sharp and ecstatic in a fitted black suit.

And standing right beside him, as his best man... was Roman.

My feet hit the carpet and completely froze.

The bouquet nearly slipped right through my numb fingers.

The dark, piercing eyes. The razor-sharp jawline. The broad shoulders. The tiny, faint scar right above his left eyebrow.

My mind rejected the sight before my brain could even process it.

Three years vanished in a single, terrifying heartbeat.

Roman.

The broke motorcycle mechanic who lived in a drafty Queens walk-up, ate two-dollar pizza slices on my fire escape, and then completely shattered my heart before vanishing into thin air.

What was he doing here? Why was he standing next to Damien in a tux that looked like it cost more than my entire life?

Roman Vance was a Blake?

A wave of sheer panic hit me like a bucket of ice water. My throat squeezed shut. I couldn't look at him. I couldn't. If I met his eyes right now, I’d crumble, and I would rather die than let the man who destroyed me see how much he still affected me. I locked my jaw, forced my expression into a mask of total indifference, and glued my eyes to the stained-glass window behind the priest—acting like he was a complete stranger I couldn't care less about.

Across the white aisle, I felt his dark gaze lock onto me, burning straight through my skin. But I didn't dare turn my head.