Chapter Six

I hate that despite my unwillingness to attend this wedding, I'm ready on time.

Not being ready on time would start another argument with my mom, but as much as I would like to argue with her, it's better to keep things the way they are. I know how she can get when she doesn't have her way, and I don't want that at the moment.

I want to attend this damned wedding and see the end of this awful day.

I check my reflection in the mirror. I'm fairly satisfied with it. There were more beautiful dresses in my closet, but since she wants me to wear this one, I will. I don't care how I look. It's not that it's a bad dress; it's too plain for a wedding. Weddings are glamorous affairs for people like us, and most of the time, the women wear designer dresses. Mom bought this dress at a store I've never even heard of. I don't know what she's thinking, but I won't challenge her. Again, I couldn't care less.

After accessorizing, I make my way downstairs. Mom is there with her arms folded, and she's tapping her heeled foot on the floor. Mary is beside her, and when I see her dress, I pause momentarily. I pause without intending to. The dress she's wearing is absolutely stunning. It's long and hugs her curves perfectly. Her hair is in a stunning updo as well, which makes me realize that there was a stylist with her. She couldn't have done her hair like that on her own.

I glance at mom. I wonder what she's up to again. Why did she buy me a relatively plain dress, and not Mary?

There's only one answer to that question.

Mom arches a brow when she sees me, and she places a hand on her hip. I meet her gaze and walk down the last few steps. Mary looks a little embarrassed by my appearance, but I wouldn't feel bad for me if I were her. I don't give a damn about this whole thing. I want to get it done and over with as quickly as possible.

"I'm glad we're on the same page," mom says. "Let's go."

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes and follow her and Mary out the door. The driver is waiting for us outside. We get inside the car and he speeds off. Mom is seated between the two of us, so there's no chance of us saying anything to each other. But to he frank, I don't know what I'd say to Mary even if we were alone in the car. For so long, she was anguished by the thought of marrying Luca Ferrante, and now that things have changed, I don't know what's left to say. I glance at her and notice that she's staring at her reflection in the window. She looks stunning, and I'd tell her this if I weren't upset with this whole thing.

"When we arrive," mom begins, but that's all I hear. I've blocked her out completely. It seems like she's talking to Mary, not me. I stare out the window while she goes on and on about the bride and groom. I don't have time for this pointless gossip. Mary didn't either until a few days ago, but now she's giggling at some probable absurdity tumbling from mom's lips, and I catch myself wondering if there's something I missed throughout the years, something that indicated that Mary was always on mom's side. It makes me uneasy, knowing that it could all have been a farce. Well, the truth is that she's always been good at faking it like me, but she was much better, and more patient.

Could she have been faking it with me, too?

I brush the thought away. There's not a chance in hell of that being true. She's just excited that her friend is getting married. She looks and feels beautiful, and she's not in a sour mood like I am. That's all there is to it.

There's also the thing with the Ferrantes that she's glad about. Or not. I don't know anymore. This is all getting too complicated.

"Your father will meet us there," I hear mom say. She sighs afterward and rearranges the bracelet on her wrist. "I hope he isn't late. It'll look bad. I can't excuse his absence forever."

The car slows to a stop in front of a grand hotel. I know this hotel. I've been here before with Victoria. It was someone's birthday. A cousin of hers, I'm sure. A man in a fine suit opens the door, and I slide out. The night's air is a little cool and the wind rustles my hair. I wait for mom and Mary to start walking before I do. We ascend a long flight of stairs to the entrance of the hotel, where mom shows another finely dressed man her invitation.

As soon as we enter the large ballroom, I see people we recognize. I bow my head in greeting but don't stop to chat to anyone. When mom and Mary stop, I keep walking. I don't have the patience for this. Most of these people aren't even true friends; it's simply the kind of friendship that is maintained just for the sake of it. Important people should know each other. End of story.

I don't have any friends within our world.

A waiter walks past with a tray of champagne and I grab a glass. I need liquid courage. The champagne is delicious and expensive. A couple walk past me, and I notice how the woman glances at my outfit. She's dressed in a glamorous emerald silk gown, and her neck is adorned with pearls. When I glance over my shoulder, I see that a group of older women are also staring at me while speaking in hushed voices. I take another sip of champagne. I won't let this affect me. I tell myself that I couldn't possibly care about what they think, and that this is all on mom for choosing this dress for me.

She's the one who'll look bad. Not me.

I hear her surname, after all.

Still, this makes me more curious as to why she wanted me to wear this plain dress. There has to be a good reason. Mom doesn't do anything without thinking it over twice. There's a motive for this and I suspect that I'll find out what it is soon.

I glance around the room to divert myself. Everything looks and smells expensive in here, from the food being offered to the guests to the bouquets on the tables. The colors are all cohesive and I can tell that the stylist must be one of the best in the city. These people wouldn't have asked just anyone to organize the reception. I drain my glass and think of having another one when I'm approached my mom and Mary.

I brace myself for what she'll say.

"Your father is late," she informs me, as if there's anything that I can do about it. "It doesn't look good."

"I don't know what you want me to say," I tell her.

This seems to hit a nerve. "Can't you ever be in agreement with me? Why do you have to fight me on everything, Laura?"

I don't see how this qualifies as fighting, but I don't answer her. I stand next to her wishing that I had taken the glass of champagne when it was offered, and I glance around the room for another waiter. There's one carrying a tray of canapés, and I take one. It's a piece of smoked salmon on a cracker. I don't pay attention to the garnish. It all tastes the same, anyway.

Mom has more to say, it seems. "If you were more like Mary, the three of us would be an unbeatable team."

"How would that make us unbeatable?" I ask, unable to hide the incredulity from my voice. She says things that I can't wrap my head around. I glance at Mary and notice that she's eyeing me with some despair. Oh, so now she sees me? I don't entertain the look she's giving me.

Mom narrows her eyes at me and doesn't answer the question. I hope it's because she realizes how little sense her statement made. I shove the canapé in my mouth without taking my eyes off her face. She says nothing else, and Mary looks away.

I'm tired of both of them, so I walk toward a waiter I spot with a tray of flutes. I thank him as I take one, and wash the canapé down. I can feel them both looking at me, but I don't meet their gazes. I can't keep doing this. There are times when I feel like threading my fingers through my hair and pulling it all out as I scream. Interacting with mom is always an exhausting affair, so if I can keep my distance, I'm safe.

I'm draining my glass when I notice the Ferrante family walking into the room. The parents are in front, followed by the older brother. My heart accelerates for some reason, and I keep waiting for the men at the door to close the door, signaling that no one else is entering. But they don't. A few seconds later, Luca Ferrante strides into the room wearing a fitted navy blue suit. His eyes search the room, and I hold my breath this time.

And then, his gaze lands on me.

At first, I think he'll look away, but he doesn't. The longer he stares, the faster my heart beats. I don't look away either. I want him to know that I'm not intimidated by him, not by his reputation or his money. The seconds feel like minutes, and I begin doubting my decision to keep staring. Maybe he'll get the wrong message. Maybe ignoring him would be better. But I convince myself to keep my chin up, and he finally looks away first.

Just as he does, I see a smile curves his lips.