lilies and expensive cologne. I almost turned around twice. Once when the doorman raised an eyebrow at the stroller I had decided to leave in the car, and again when I saw the massive floral archway that must have cost ten thousand dollars.
But I kept walking.
At the registration table, a bridesmaid with a clipboard looked up. She was young, blonde, and had the same polished, plastic look as Madison. She glanced at the invitation in my hand, then at my face. Her smile faltered when she saw the three identical faces peering out from behind my skirt.
“You’re… Emily?” she asked, her voice dropping an octave.
“Yes. Mrs. Caldwell—sorry, Ms. Ross,” I corrected myself.
She swallowed visibly. She checked the list, her finger trembling slightly. “Right. The groom left specific instructions. Front row. Right side.”
Of course he did. He wanted me front and center. He wanted to see the light die in my eyes when he said “I do.”
“Thank you,” I said coolly.
We entered the ballroom.
It was a sea of pastel silks and charcoal suits. A string quartet was playing a mournful, beautiful rendition of Can’t Help Falling in Love. The room was packed with people who looked like they belonged in a lifestyle magazine—Ryan’s colleagues, Madison’s sorority sisters, wealthy clients.
