Page 1 of The Surrender
Chapter 1
It’s the perfect day for a wedding—fierce sunshine, a light breeze, the temperature on the warmer side of cool. The balcony off the ballroom at Café Royal is set up beautifully, flowers spilling over the sides of tall vases dotted between the outdoor furniture and pyramid patio heaters. Regent Street is bustling down below, this little canopied secret spot secluded and out of the way.
Which is why I’m here now.
I just needed to escape the chaos of Clark and Rachel’s wedding day for a moment. Various members of the bridal party are stressing out over flowers, dresses, hair, and makeup. And the fact they’re running a few minutes behind schedule. I feel like an empty vessel of a woman standing in the middle of the madness. Lost. Not hearing. Not seeing.
But feeling.
My heart turns in my chest again, as it has constantly this past week, my eyes closing briefly to blink away the relentless reminders of him. Reminders of us.
On a deep breath, I approach the edge of the balcony, looking down onto the crowds of London. Scooters weave around red double-decker buses and black cabs, horns honk, bells on bicycles ding. It’s chaos. A lot like my thoughts.
Lowering to a nearby rattan couch, I turn my phone in my hand as it notifies me of another message. I shouldn’t read it. And yet my eyes drop to the screen.
Amelia, I’m begging you. Please, I need to see you.
I swallow down the lump in my throat and delete it, sending his worthless words to the trash along with every other message and email he’s sent. I try so hard to find the fixed smile I’ve worn this past week before I return to the celebrations, but my shattered heart is far from done hurting. Everything is an effort. My only saving grace is that everyone is so wrapped up in the day, my distraction isn’t being noticed.
My phone clutched tightly in my hand, I get up and step back into the ballroom, gazing around. It’s stunning when it’s an empty room. Now, with rows of gold chairs lined up, two enormous vases at the end of the aisle bursting with blush roses, and candles lighting the way, it’s beyond that.
“Oh, thank God, I’ve found you.”
I whirl around and find Clark pacing towards me. “Hey.” I smile and motion to the masterpiece of a ballroom. “Doesn’t it look incredible?”
“Wonderful.” He frowns and gives the space way less admiration than it deserves. “I’ve lost the cake. My one job was to get the cake here, and it’s missing.” He takes my hand and squeezes, crushing my phone in my grasp. “Please help me find the cake.”
“The cake is safe and sound.” I flex my hand, encouraging him to release me. “The wedding planner had the kitchen staff move it to the fridge to keep it cool.”
Clark deflates before my eyes. “Christ.” His cheeks puff out, the back of his hand wiping his brow. Then he smiles. “You look lovely.” He steps back and takes me in. “This colour suits you.”
I gaze down my front to the floor-length chiffon skirt and matching bandeau top, just an inch of my midriff exposed. “Thanks.”
“Teal.”
I freeze, jarred, my eyes still cast down. “What?”
“It’s teal,” he says. “The colour of your dress.”
“Sure. It’s teal.”
“Actually, it’s more muted. Like the sea. You know, when you’re not sure if it’s blue or green.”
Jude’s eyes.
“Seafoam,” I murmur.
“Yes, that’s it!” Clark sings, as if the colour of my dress is something to celebrate. I suddenly want to rip it off my body. And since when has my brother been so observant? “Fuck, I’m nervous.” He starts twiddling his thumbs and looking around the ballroom before checking his watch. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
His anxiety is the distraction I need, to be able to focus on someone else’s worries. “Hey,” I say, trying to get my head on straight. “You’ve got this.” I link my arm through his and start to lead him out of the ballroom. “We need to vacate; your guests will be directed in from the bar shortly.”
“Why haven’t I had a drink?” he asks. “I need a drink.”
“Let’s get you a drink.” I could do with one myself too, so I take Clark to the bar on the bottom floor rather than the bar where all the guests are congregating and drinking cocktails. I order two dirty martinis and sit my beloved little brother on a stool, putting a drink in his hand when the barman slides them across to me. Clark frowns at my choice but doesn’t question it, knocking the olive aside and tipping the drink back. “Jesus, Clark, you’re supposed to sip.”
He gasps and sets the glass down. “I feel better already.” He pops the olive in his mouth and sighs. “Is she nervous?” he asks. “Even a bit?”
I smile,sippingmy martini. This is what I should be consumed by. My brother’s wedding day. “She has butterflies, her words.”
