Page 87 of Nash

She means Axel, and this is so fucking brutal and cruel. Them, lying to her. Nash, looking at me. Alena, trusting us.

I can’t do this.

“I’m done.” I look down, lifting the hem of my dress to run to the changing room.

“But dear,” the seamstress says, kneeling by my feet, “I’mnot done.”

“But I…” I chew my lip. I fear the burn, the biting at my eyes, the tears threatening to fall.

“Hey.” A voice calls out. “Where’d you go?”

“In here,” Alena replies to Axel.

It gets worse. So much worse. I’m trapped as Axel enters the room, too. Yes, he looks as sexy as Nash in his navy suit, but it’s ugly, the secret we hide. But they can’t hide it from me.

I know.

That’s how Axel looks at me. That’s how Nash looks at me, too.

They know.

They know Nash has broken me, and I know their bond.

“You look stunning, Ms. Monroe,” Axel says with no ire, sounding soft and sincere.

“Right?” Alena gushes. “Her twin looks equally gorgeous. You’re walking with Blair. And, Dad, you’ll walk with Vale down the aisle. Hell, you all will look so good; no one will look at me.”

“Yes, they will.” I force myself to speak up. For Alena, I always will. “No one can outshine you now or on your wedding day. You’re going to be the queen.”

Whoops.

I cringe. I didn’t mean to use that word. It’s the one Ms. Faye used when we saw Alena in her dress, and it just slipped out.

Nash clears his throat, looking away. Axel gives me a “Watch It” look, and Alena is still unaware.

I don’t know the details of these men and their bonds as kings with queens, but I’m wearing the bruises of an idea.

Bruises Axel suddenly notes, his stare shocked, then masked. Bruises Nash won’t confront. He’s forcing his focus on Alena. Bruises I see in the mirror, and suddenly, I’m not proud. I’m embarrassed.

Mortified.

Degraded.

Abandoned.

“Please,” I tell the seamstress. “I need to excuse myself.”

She lets me rush away, aiming for the dressing rooms.

“Vale,” Alena calls out. “You okay?”

I force my strangled throat to work. “Gotta pee.”

But I don’t. I hide in the ladies’ room and cry, muffling my sobs with my fist, desperate for Alena not to hear me. But like every best friend, she does. She must sense it like I can feel her pain, too.

“Vale?” She swings the door open. “What’s wrong?” She sees my tear-stained face. “Do you hate the dress or something?”

“No,” I mutter. “I just hate seeing my broken heart and bruises in it.”

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