I shield my face from the wind, then watch as the bird rises, taking Damien away from me. I know he’ll be back tonight, but already I feel hollow.
I consider going inside to get dressed, but instead I follow the flagstone path that cuts through the property until it reaches the beach. I walk along the sandy shore, imagining my wedding. We’ve planned it for sunset, with a party to follow. Considering who Damien is, the guest list is relatively small. We’ve invited our mutual friends as well as a number of key employees of Stark International, Stark Applied Technology, and the rest of Damien’s subsidiaries. Also, some of the recipients of grants from Damien’s various charitable organizations.
The ceremony itself is going to be short and simple, with Damien and I having only a best man and a maid of honor, respectively. Since my father ran off ages ago, I don’t have a man to walk me down the aisle. I considered asking one of my best friends, Ollie, but even though he and Damien have negotiated a truce, I didn’t want to risk marring my wedding day with drama.
And there’s no way I’m having my mother do it. How could I stand to have her give me away when I’ve spent the last few years running from her? I have not, in fact, even invited her to the wedding. Which means I have no parent to give me away. So I’m going to walk myself down the aisle, a journey on a pathway of rose petals, with Damien Stark standing tall and elegant at the end of it.
We’ve written vows—short and sweet—and we both agree that what is important is getting to the meat of the ceremony: Do you take this man? Do you take this woman? I do, I do, dear God, I do.
The reception is a different story—that we expect to go on all night. Maybe even into the next day. After Damien and I head out on our honeymoon after the appropriate socializing and cake-eating interval, Jamie is taking charge of the Malibu house and she, with the help of Ryan Hunter and the rest of the Stark International security team, will make sure that anyone who needs a place to crash has one, and anyone who needs a lift home gets one.
Even though we’ll be off on our honeymoon for most of it, it is the details of the reception that have been occupying most of my time. I’ve arranged for tents, dance floors, lanterns, and heaters. There will be a buffet, three bars, and a chocolate fondue station provided by Damien’s best man, his childhood friend Alaine Beauchene. I’m a little flummoxed by my music conundrum, but I’m revved up and eager to solve it, and I tell myself that by the end of the day I will have arranged both the music and the photographer. I am nothing if not optimistic.
Other than that, the only major things still needing to be wrapped up are finalizing the cake—which I’ll do in a few hours—and then the final dress fitting. The dress is a Phillipe Favreau original that we purchased in Paris after hours of conversation with Phillipe himself. It is insanely expensive, but as Damien reminded me, there’s very little point in having gazillions of dollars if you don’t enjoy them. And I really did fall in love with the design.
Phillipe is custom-making it for me, and it is being shipped from his Paris studio. There were some nerve-wracking delays, but I’ve been assured that all is on schedule now, and it is set to arrive at his Rodeo Drive boutique tomorrow morning. His most trusted associate will make any final alterations tomorrow afternoon and deliver it the next morning—Friday—so that it will be locked up safe in the Malibu house, all ready to transform me into a bride on Saturday.
All in all, things are going reasonably smoothly, and I can’t help but smile. So what if I’ve had a few nightmares? For the most part, I’m kicking serious wedding butt, and I don’t intend to stop.
I breathe deep, content, then fling my feet through the surf, sending the water sparkling. Mrs. Damien Stark.
Honestly, I can’t wait.
“Ms. Fairchild!”
I look up to see Tony, one of Damien’s security guys, hurrying down the beach toward me.
“What’s wrong?”