Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Focus. What matters?
One: find out the truth about Amos.
Two: save Abigail’s life.
Three: go back to my old world.
Simple. Clean. A nice little list that doesn’t include anything about golden eyes or French vowels or the way he said you are unfit to be my queen in that flat, terrible voice while the staff cried and my heart—
Nope. Not thinking about that.
And if I’m very, very blessed, maybe Hewhay will be merciful and wipe my memory clean when this is over. Maybe I’ll wake up in my tiny apartment with no recollection of underground weddings or mafia kings or what it felt like to be held by someone who looked at me like I was worth keeping.
Maybe I won’t even remember falling in love.
Maybe I won’t remember getting my heart bro—
Is that Abigail?
I blink. Rub my eyes with the heel of my hand. Blink again.
Honey-blonde hair catching the afternoon light at what my photographer brain automatically identifies as golden hour—that perfect 5 PM glow that makes everyone look like they belong in a magazine. Delicate features. Luminous skin. She’s walking down the street with a shopping bag swinging from one arm, and she’s alive.
She’s alive and I can keep her that way.
I start walking. Then walking faster. Then—okay, “running” is a generous term for what I’m doing. It’s more like aggressive waddling, because wedding dresses were not designed for pursuit, and these heels are actively trying to murder me, and I’m pretty sure I just stepped on my own hem—
I stumble. Catch myself on a lamppost. A man walking his dog gives me a wide berth.
“I’m fine,” I tell him with as much dignity as I can muster. “This is normal. Brides chase people all the time.”
He walks faster.
Abigail turns into a bridal boutique. The bell above the door chimes as she disappears inside.
Perfect. A bridal boutique. At least I’ll blend in.
I follow, yanking my skirt up so I don’t trip again, and push through the door.
The interior is all soft lighting and champagne-colored walls, warm color temperature—maybe 3000K—designed to make every bride look radiant. Racks of white gowns line the walls like a ghost convention. The air smells like gardenias and new fabric and the faint chemical sweetness of dress preservation spray. A saleswoman looks up at my entrance, takes in my disheveled dress, my wind-tangled hair, my slightly manic expression, and her eyebrows climb toward her hairline.
“I’m, um.” I gesture vaguely at myself. “Long story. Very long. Incredibly long. You wouldn’t believe how long.”
She nods slowly, the way you nod at someone you suspect might be about to do something alarming.
Fair enough.
I spot Abigail near the back, being ushered toward a dressing room by another attendant. They’re discussing veils. Lace versus tulle. The attendant is holding up samples while Abigail tilts her head, considering.
This is my chance.
Probably my only chance.
I wait until the attendant steps away to fetch more options. Then I move, trying to look casual, like I’m just a normal bride browsing normal bridal things and not at all about to corner a stranger in a fitting room.
The dressing room door is slightly ajar. I slip inside, catch my heel on the threshold, lurch forward, grab a curtain for balance, and end up face to face with the woman who was supposed to marry Devyn Chaleur.
While tangled in a curtain.
Fantastic. Really nailing this whole “competent heroine” thing.
She stares at me.
I stare at her.
Her eyes—blue-gray, the color of an overcast sky—go wide with shock.
“EXCUSE ME?!”
“I know this is creepy,” I say quickly, trying to untangle myself from the curtain without making things worse. I’m making things worse. “I know how this looks—”
“If you don’t leave this instant, I’m going to call for help!”
“Please don’t—I’m so sorry—” The curtain finally releases me and I stumble back, nearly knocking over a decorative stool. “I just need to talk to you—”
“Do you have any idea who I am?” Her voice is shaking, but there’s steel underneath it. “Who I’m engaged to?”
My stomach drops.
Who she’s engaged to.
Devyn.
Right. Of course. In this timeline, they never married. He never carried me through a chapel. Never looked at my mouth and then back up like he couldn’t help himself. Never whispered French vows against my skin while the world dissolved into warmth and wonder and—
Stop it, Bailey. Stop.
“I know this is going to sound unbelievable,” I say, and I’m grateful my voice comes out mostly steady. “But I’m from the other world—”
Abigail stops.
Her mouth, which had been opening to scream for help, closes.
She looks at me. Really looks, for the first time—not at the crazy bride who just invaded her dressing room, but at me.
“I’m not crazy,” I add quickly. “I swear I’m not. I know how this sounds but—”
“So am I.”
I blink.
“I...what?”
“I’m from another world too,” Abigail reveals in a high-pitched rush. “I know you’re not crazy because I’m the same.”