“I don’t know about that,” I start but Caroline shakes her head, silencing me.
“He will.” She presses her cold fingers into the center of my bare back and I stand up straighter. “He knows.”
He knows…what?
“That he’s a very lucky man,” Caroline finishes. “Having a beautiful wife such as you.”
My heart shrivels at her words. She sounds exactly like my mother. They both only care about my looks. How I’ll appear. What my family’s social status will do for theirs.
This entire moment is a complete façade. Fake as can be.
I glance over at my mother to see her eyes are full of unshed tears—real ones. And seeing her look like that as she stares at me makes tears form in my eyes as well. “Don’t cry,” I croak, trying to blink.
“Oh, Charlotte.” She comes to me, edging Caroline out of the way so she can stare at me in the mirror, our heads bent close together as she carefully slips her arms around my waist. “You look like a fairy princess. It’s just—it’s unbelievable.”
“Why?” I wipe underneath my eyes, grateful I didn’t wear mascara.
“I just didn’t expect you to choose a dress like this.”
“Like what?” I grab hold of the skirt, giving it a slight shake. “So big and poufy?”
Tinsley laughs. “I love the big-and-poufy look. It fits you.”
My mother takes a step back, glancing over at Tinsley. “Doesn’t it? Yet this is the girl who wanted to wear black to her wedding.”
Tinsley laughs even harder. “Now that would’ve been a sight to see. All of us Constantines would’ve praised her for keeping within the family theme.”
“What theme are you talking about?” I ask my future sister-in-law.
Her smile is small. “We all have black souls, don’t you know?”
Caroline lightly smacks her in the arm. “Speak for yourself.”
“Oh please. You have the darkest soul of us all.” Tinsley’s voice is light, as if she’s teasing, but I don’t know.
She might be right.
The seamstress appears and gets right to work, walking in a complete circle as she scrutinizes me in my gown. She fluffs out the train, examining the hem’s construction. Pushes it to the side so she can come up directly behind me, her hands gathering any loose fabric at my ribs and tucking it tighter around my back.
“It could be taken in a little here,” the older woman says to my mother.
Not to me. As if I don’t have anything to do with this, which is par for the course. I haven’t had much choice in this situation.
“Anywhere else?” Mother asks, her gaze shooting to mine. “Charlotte? How does it feel? Is it loose anywhere? Or too tight?”
“It’s perfect,” I answer automatically, my gaze returning to my reflection in the mirror. I stare at myself for a while, taking in the shimmering fabric, the delicate flowers, the frothy white lace. Mother is right. I look straight out of a fairy tale. “I love it.”
“You look stunning,” Mother says, her smile gentle. “Let’s take it in a little at the waist as the seamstress suggests.”
“Okay.” I smile, my gaze sliding to Tinsley. For some reason, I want her approval. Caroline will offer it automatically because I’m doing what she wants. My mother is overcome with emotion at seeing me in a wedding dress, so she’s a sure thing too.
Tinsley is the lone Constantine female close to my age. I view her as a potential ally. And I’m suddenly filled with the need for her to like me. Despite everything.
Like the truth.
“Charlotte, that dress is gorgeous. Perry is going to lose his mind when he sees you walking down that aisle,” she says, a mischievous smile on her face. As if she knows what’s really going on and is just playing along.
Maybe she does know the truth. Though I don’t think it really matters if she does or not.
Seems that the Constantines are good at keeping secrets.
And so are the Lancasters.
Chapter Seventeen
Perry
I enter the apartment just past six o’clock, greeted by utter silence once I open the door. Usually I can hear Charlotte talking Jasper’s ear off as he attempts to teach her how to cook. Not that he cooks for us, but he does have the basic skills down according to Charlotte, and he’s patient with her as he explains the process.
Should I find it endearing she’s becoming domesticated, or worried?
Not sure what to think about it.
I move deeper into the apartment, loosening my tie, wondering where the hell Charlotte and Jasper are when I see a strange man standing by the windows, overlooking the cityscape.
Going completely still, I watch him, wondering why he didn’t react when he heard me open the door. The man is dressed in an impeccable suit. One that looks more expensive than mine, and I’m wearing Tom Ford.
The man glances over his shoulder, his gaze drilling into mine and that’s when I realize who it is. Reginald Lancaster.
Charlotte’s asshole father.
“Well, hello. Welcome to my home,” I say, trying to keep the moment light.
This man brings with him darkness everywhere he goes, and my current mood is already dark enough.
“You mean my home? The one I was kind enough to gift to you and my daughter?” Reginald turns to face me fully, his brows lifted in question.
Why does he have to be such a dick all the time? Like all the Lancaster men?
I don’t get it.
“I appreciate the gift,” I say, which is a lie.
This apartment is a form of control over me and Charlotte. It may look like a gift, but it comes with a price.
Such as her father dropping in unannounced. Even letting himself in when no one else is here.
But us living here gets her out of his house and that’s all the fuck that matters.
“You should appreciate it. This penthouse is worth millions. A prime piece of property that we’ve held on to for far too long. I should’ve put it on the market the minute my son abandoned it, but my wife wouldn’t let me.” He shakes the glass in his hand that I didn’t notice before, the ice rattling within. “Care for a drink?”
“Shouldn’t I be the one offering?”
“Humor me, son. Let me play host for a moment.”
“Where’s Jasper?”
“I sent him off on an errand.” He smiles. “You aren’t scared of me, are you?”
I hate when people act like this. Smug. Above it all. “No. You don’t scare me.”
“Good,” he grunts. “You like scotch?”
“I do.”
“Care for a glass?”
“Sure.” Easy, agreeable Perry Constantine kicks in, just as he always does. “That sounds great.”
I follow him to the bar cart that’s loaded with a variety of alcohol, watching as he refills his glass with an aged scotch and pours me my own glass before handing it over.
“To marriage.” Reginald raises his glass and I do the same, clinking them together.
“To marriage,” I echo, taking a giant swallow, savoring the burn as it slides down my throat.
I’m hoping if I drink enough of it, it’ll wash away the unease inside of me. I don’t like that this man just suddenly showed up uninvited. And how he let himself inside my home—though I guess technically, the apartment belongs to him.