Twisted Hate (Twisted, 3)

I allowed myself one pity party a year, so after my shower breakdown, I gathered myself together and pushed thoughts of Max and Josh aside until after the wedding.

Luckily, the palace kept us busy with rehearsals, pre-wedding parties, and protocol lessons, and before I knew it, the ceremony was only half an hour away.

Bridget, Ava, Stella, Bridget’s sister-in-law Sabrina—her matron of honor as dictated by protocol—and I were gathered in the bridal suite for one last check before we entered the cathedral where the wedding would take place.

Seven thousand guests. Live broadcast to millions of viewers around the world.

Nerves fluttered in my stomach.

“I know I’ve said it before, but thank you guys so much for being here.” Bridget’s eyes shimmered with emotion as she looked around at us. “I know the preparations have been crazy, and the scrutiny isn’t easy, so I appreciate it.”

“We wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Stella squeezed her hand, her eyes glowing with a mix of happiness and melancholy.

The same contradictory emotions dripped through me as the clock counted down to the ceremony. I was truly happy for Bridget, especially after everything she and Rhys went through to be together, but her marriage marked the end of an era.

My friends and I were growing up. We were no longer the young, carefree students we once were. We hadn’t been in a long time, but somehow, Bridget’s wedding drove that fact home harder than her coronation had.

Gone were the days of impromptu weekend trips, late night spa sessions in our dorm, and weekly catchups over coffee and scones at The Morning Roast.

Now, Ava lived with Alex and was constantly traveling for her job. Bridget was a literal queen and about to get married. And Stella was so busy with the magazine and her blog I barely saw her, even though we were roommates.

But when we were together, it was like old times again, and I would never take that for granted.

“Tell Rhys to treat you right or he’ll have to answer to us,” Stella added.

Despite her threat, we knew we didn’t need to worry. Rhys treated Bridget like a queen even before she ascended to the throne.

Bridget’s soft laugh contained a touch of wateriness. “I will.”

Someone knocked on the door. Freja, the palace’s communications secretary, entered and dipped her head at Bridget.

“Your Majesty. Are you ready?”

Apprehension cascaded across Bridget’s face for the first time that day, but she straightened her shoulders and nodded.

We did one last hair and makeup check before we filed downstairs and across the long hallway connecting the guesthouse and ancient cathedral.

The doors opened, and every thought except not tripping during my endless walk down the aisle faded.

Prime ministers. Royalty. Celebrities. Josh.

All in the audience staring at me, but of the thousands of pairs of eyes, one in particular seared into me when I passed the pews reserved for the bride and groom’s close friends and family.

My heartbeat drummed louder.

I took my place at the altar and trained my eyes on the entrance, determined not to look at a certain friend’s brother in the crowd.

Don’t look. Don’t look. Do not look.

Bridget entered on the arm of her grandfather, the former King Edvard, and an awed hush blanketed the crowd.

Across the altar, Rhys fell unnaturally still. His eyes locked onto Bridget’s, and his face glowed with such love it made my heart squeeze. A meteor could’ve landed in the cathedral and he wouldn’t have been able to tear his eyes away from her.

Bridget’s returning smile was visible even beneath her lace veil. The moment stretched between them, so raw and intimate I felt like I was intruding despite the thousands of guests surrounding us.

I blinked away the tears gathering in my eyes. I wasn’t crying. I was expelling excess moisture. That was all.

But when the archbishop started the ceremony, I couldn’t stop myself from scanning the pews to tamp down my emotion. The last thing I needed was to ugly cry on live television.

My gaze skipped over a handful of recognizable European royals, a world-famous pop singer, and the up-and-coming soccer star Asher Donovan before it snagged on Josh.

So much for not looking at him.

He sat in the second row behind the royal family, devastating in a black tuxedo. He’d tamed his hair into a neat style that emphasized the finely chiseled lines of his cheekbones, and his coal dark eyes burned into mine with an intensity that seeped beneath my skin.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

My heartbeat drowned out the archbishop’s voice as Josh’s eyes held me captive.

I should look away before my face broadcast to the world what I wasn’t ready to admit myself.

And the fact that I couldn’t terrified me more than any blackmail or monster from my past could.