Page 14 of Not His Bride

Debbie folds her arms. “My name sells the product.”

“And Lilith makes sure the product sells, so you make money.”

Debbie’s face goes flat.

Phillip steps in before she can answer. “They both contribute. That’s how a family business works.”

“So you do know.”

His brows pull together. “Of course I know what my daughter does.”

“Then why does everyone think Debbie did it?”

“Because Debbie handles the public side.”

Tammy sighs. “Gallagher, this has nothing to do with what happened tonight.”

“It has everything to do with what happened tonight.”

Phillip told me Debbie deserved the best while offering me Lilith instead. Tonight, I find out Lilith has been quietly making millions for the same family that treats her like the spare.

I look past her at Phillip. He doesn’t look nearly as confident as he did when he told me his Debbie deserved the best.

Neither do I. And for the first time since I proposed this entire arrangement, the merger is the last thing on my mind.

Chapter 6

Lilith

Iunlock my apartment door, still wearing my wedding dress. I thought about booking a hotel, but the thought of it makes me nauseous. I was supposed to stay with Gallagher tonight, so returning to an impersonal hotel room is the last thing I want to do. The skirt of the wedding dress sweeps the entryway.

The apartment is cooler than the ballroom, but sweat is still trapped beneath the seam at my ribs. I kick the door shut behind me and take two steps toward the bathroom, dragging the heel of my hand along the light gray wall, past the black trim, for balance. I pass my deep maroon accent wall filled with Phantom of the Opera memorabilia, including photos and artwork. A little black raven statue sits on the shelf beneath them, staring at me with its head tilted.

The zipper is sewn into the back of the dress, buried deep enough that getting out of it was always supposed to be someone else’s problem. Heather, if I needed the bathroom. Gallagher, once we were alone for the night.

The bathroom light is brutal when I flip it on. All I want is to sit in the dark, but not with this awful thing on me.

I twist one arm behind my back and reach until my shoulder burns. My fingers find fabric, then the seam, but I can’t find the zipper pull.

I switch arms and reach from above. My fingertips brush the pull.

“Come on.”

I catch it for half a second before it slips away. I try again and then again. By the fourth attempt, my shoulder is throbbing and the dress feels tighter than it did five minutes ago.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

I turn sideways in the mirror and reach behind myself with both hands, contorting until I finally hook one fingernail beneath the zipper. It moves maybe half an inch before stopping.

That’s it. I’m done.

Leaving the bathroom, I march back into the kitchen. The red velvet curtains over the living room windows are still drawn from this morning. The scissors are in the junk drawer beside the refrigerator. After grabbing them, I return to the bathroom and wedge one blade beneath the fabric near the zipper.

I hesitate for just a second. This morning, this dress meant everything to me. I thought I was marrying a man who picked me, a man I’d spent four weeks eager to finally meet.

Then, I cut.

The first snip barely gets through the outer layer.