Page 148 of The Wedding Menu

God, I want to reach him. I want to hug him and make it all better. If I can’t, I want to at least be there for him, hugging him in silence as he cries out all the tears I’m sure he’s holding back.

“Let’s talk about this in private,” William says, gesturing toward the door.

“Why?” Ian tries to take a step forward. When the middle-aged man in front of him holds a hand to his chest, Ian spreads his arms. “What’s there to keep secret? You don’t think everyone should know the truth?”

With his dark eyes narrowing, William removes the tissue from under his nose. “Think about your mother’s restaurant before you do anything you’ll regret, Ian. Especially for some meaningless girl.”

“Meaningless,” Ian grinds out. “You think I care about the Marguerite more than I care about Amelie? I love—” He turns around, looking for me. When his eyes meet mine across the crowd of people on the stage, they soften. “I love you, Amelie.”

My lips tremble for a second, tears falling down my cheeks as soon as I blink. “I know,” I whisper. “I love you too.”

He smiles for just as long, his blue eyes even bluer now thatthey’re coated in tears. I’m not sure if it’s pain over what happened, anger at his father, or happiness at hearing my words—though probably it’s a mix of all three.

Focusing back on William, he continues, “You know what the restaurant means to me. It’s all we have left of Mom.” His voice breaks, but he shakes his head as if telling himself he’s not allowed to break down. “But I love Amelie more than anything else. She’s alive; she’s here. She has emotions and feelings and dreams, and you squashed them all, you fucking psychopath.”

William’s jaw sets as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks around the room, then turns to his son again. “Ian, you are good. Too good. These women almost killed you with how much they hurt you. And then I find out a Preston broke your heart? I wasn’t going to stand by and—”

“I don’t care!” Ian shouts. “You were all I had left, for fuck’s sake.” With one quick twist of his upper body, he frees himself of the men’s hold. “I’m good. I’m not going to hit him again.”

He turns to the crowd, pulling down his sweater, which has run up his chest in all the commotion. Dragging a shaky hand through his hair, he inhales, then steps up to the microphone. “Hello, everyone. Sorry to interrupt your seminar.”

“Ian!” I shriek.

What his father did is illegal. Unethical. It’s the death of the Roberts name and their restaurant. He can’t tell the whole world.

“Most of you know about theidioticfeud between the Robertses and Prestons. Well, it ends today. I have not one single issue with Hammond Preston’s professional life and the way he runs his business.”

“Ian, stop,” William insists, but when he tries to reach his son, he’s held back.

“Most of you also know about Amelie Preston’s recently failedventure, thanks toYummagazine.” He trains his glare on the journalists and cameramen whose devices bear the magazine’s logo. “With their display of unethical journalism and media bullying, they made sure her professionalandpersonal life were dragged through the mud.”

The murmurs in the room grow, and, feeling all eyes on me, I move behind my dad a little. Probably not the best place to look for protection, but here we are.

“What you don’t know is that my father is responsible for her failure,” Ian continues. “That he used his contacts in the world of fine cuisine to sink her business. And that this industry is permeated by nepotism, corruption, sexism, and all sorts of exhausting shit.” He shakes his head. “Maybe you do know but you don’t care.”

The room is now uncomfortably silent, the occasional squeaking of chairs the only interruption.

“Anyway, I’m done with it. I’m done with all of you, with butter and disgusting fucking cheese, and most of all”—he turns to his father—“I’m done with William Roberts.”

He faces me for just a second, and I wish there weren’t as much pain in his eyes as I see. That I could take some of it away. Then he turns his attention to the silent audience again and takes a deep breath. “The Marguerite is, from today onward, closed.”

My jaw drops, and it’s safe to say the same thing happens to most of the other people in the room. Did he just say he’s closing down the restaurant? Given how upset he is, I’m sure he doesn’t want to work with his father—or see him, for that matter—but can’t we find another solution? Take a moment to think about it?

The room explodes in a cacophony of voices as Ian abandons the microphone and, without one single glance at his father, comes over to me. As the audience members talk excitedly among themselves, the journalists in the room start shouting questionsabout our relationship and ask for proof of what Ian just revealed. William repeats Ian’s name. My father launches into one of his monologues of French insults. And through it all, Ian drapes his arms around me.

It’s like nothing else exists beyond our hug, and if something did, Ian wouldn’t notice. His face sinks into the crook of my neck, his body shaking against mine, and I’m not sure if he wants to comfort me or needs comforting himself, but I hold him as tightly as I possibly can, not wanting to ever let go.

“I love you,” he whispers. “Let’s leave Mayfield and Creswell. Your father and mine. The restaurants. Let’s leave it all behind together and start over somewhere else.”

“Yes,” I answer without hesitating. I don’t need to think about it, don’t need to consider it or wonder or worry. It’s the easiest yes of my life.

Ian leans back, kisses my lips, then lets me go, the hauntingly sad expression still on his face. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Fucking hell, this baby better be cute,” Barb says, shutting the door of the cab. “I can’t believe I missed a literal smackdown because of a headache.”

The Kent Farm stands before me, the endless fields on my left and right as familiar as they are painful. Stepping on the gravel, I straighten my forest-green dress. “It was quite the show. Of course, not if you’re involved in it.”

“What happened then?”

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