In her heyday, Fabiana Ferreira had been known for her curves, her beachy waves, and the small, endearing mole above her upper lip. She’d commanded almost as much money per day as Naomi Campbell, Linda Evangelista, and Christy Turlington, the so-called Holy Trinity of supermodels in the nineties, and she’d graced the covers of every major publication from Vogue to Mode de Vie to Cosmopolitan.
However, outside of her modeling accomplishments, she was even more famous for her string of failed relationships, including three marriages (and divorces) by the time she turned forty.
She was almost sixty now, but she could pass for someone twenty years younger as the makeup artist put the finishing touches on her face. It’d been seventy-two hours since her call, and here I was, helping her get ready for her fourth wedding in Rio.
“Thank you, darling,” my mother said when I handed her a bottle of coconut water. “I’m so glad the dress fits you. Lorena is a genius.” Lorena was her longtime stylist and best friend.
“Me too,” I said dryly. Considering the tight timeline, I’d have to make do even if the dress hadn’t fit.
After my mother’s call, Marcelo and I had scrambled to pack and prep for the wedding. I’d been so frazzled I’d forgotten about bus tickets until Dominic stepped in and offered to book us a private driver. His jet was in Rio, and it was easier to get from Buzios to the city by road than by air.
Under any other circumstances, I would’ve said no, but I’d had enough on my mind without stressing over tickets and potential delays. I’d accepted, which meant he was in attendance today since it would’ve been rude not to invite him after he did us a favor, but I’d deal with that later.
At the moment, I was more concerned about my mother’s impending marriage to someone I didn’t know and hadn’t heard of until three days ago.
“How did you and Bernard meet?” Between the fittings, photoshoots, and last-minute cake tastings, we hadn’t had a chance to discuss her relationship until now.
Apparently, Bernard was a big shot in the telecommunications space, which explained how he had the money and resources to pull together a luxury wedding with less than a week’s notice. According to Mom, he’d proposed the day before her call.
“At a boutique on Avenue Montaigne. Isn’t that just perfect?” My mom sighed. “I was shopping for a new pair of shoes and he was buying jewelry for his mother’s birthday. It was love at first sight. He invited me to dinner that night—we went to a restaurant with the most fabulous foie gras—and the rest, as they say, is history.”
Buying jewelry for his mother? Likely story. I bet the jewelry had been for his girlfriend at the time, but I kept my mouth shut. I’d learned a long time ago that there was no use arguing with my mother when it came to her love life.
“And when did this perfect meet cute happen?” I asked.
“During Paris Fashion Week.” My mother examined her reflection with a critical eye. “I need more powder here, here, and here.” She pointed to a few flawless spots on her face. “I don’t want to look like a melting ice cream cone in photos.” The makeup artist obliged even though the base was already perfect.
I was stuck on Paris Fashion Week. “The one in September?” I stared at her. “You don’t think it’s…” Foolish. Idiotic. Bonkers. “Imprudent to marry a man you met two months ago?”
“When you know, you know. You can’t put a timeline on love.” She fluffed her hair. “Look at you and Dominic. You got married a year after you met.”
My chest squeezed at the reminder. “There’s a difference between two months and a year. Besides, we’re not married anymore.”
Most people would have enough tact not to bring up someone’s marriage so soon after their divorce, but my mother and tact were casual acquaintances at best. She wasn’t malicious, merely oblivious, which was somehow worse.
“I suppose not. What a shame. There aren’t many men who are as rich and handsome as he is.” My mother pursed her lips. She’d been skeptical of Dominic until he’d made his first million. She’d softened further after his first hundred million and was all in by the time he’d hit his first billion at the tender young age of twenty-six. “Isn’t he your date today? Things can’t be that bad if you brought him with you.”
“Mother, we’re divorced. You can’t get any worse than that.”
“Then why is he here?”
“Because he flew me and Marcelo here at the last minute.” I gave her a pointed look.
She ignored it and slanted an uncharacteristically knowing look in my direction. “Alessandra, darling, it’s only a three-hour flight from Buzios to Rio. A nice gift would’ve been a perfectly acceptable thank you. You didn’t need to invite him to the wedding.”
I stared at the array of creams and lipsticks on the table.
For once, she was right. Having Dominic attend an intimate family event was one of the worst ideas in the history of bad ideas, but I couldn’t bear the thought of attending the wedding solo. I had Marcelo, but he was busy playing groomsman and feeling out our soon-to-be stepfather to help.
He wasn’t as resigned to our mother’s terrible choices in men as I was.
The prospect of sitting through yet another Fabiana Ferreira wedding alone had snuffed out my irritation over Dominic’s jealousy and stubborn persistence. He was one of the few people who understood my complicated relationship with my mother, and despite what had happened between us, my first instinct was to turn to him for comfort.
The ceremony started in an hour. Wrangling my mother was like wrangling a toddler—I had to confiscate her hidden flask of alcohol, soothe her temper tantrum when the poor makeup artist finally put her foot down about changing her contour, and shower her with compliments and reassurances as I pulled her away from her reflection—but eventually, I got her to the altar in one piece.
Luckily, unlike her first two lavish weddings (the third had been a drunken affair at an Elvis chapel in Vegas), this one was relatively short and understated. There were about two dozen guests in attendance, which was decent considering the uber last-minute notice. Besides Lorena, I recognized Ayana, my mother’s supermodel protege, Lilah Amiri, a famous fashion designer, and a handful of magazine editors.
Dominic sat on the bride’s side of the aisle, wearing an exquisite black suit and a solemn expression. The heat of his stare warmed my skin as I walked past him carrying a bouquet of calla lilies.
I was my mother’s only bridesmaid this time around, but the walk, the flowers, and the processional music excavated memories of another wedding from long ago and far away.
The doors to the chapel opened. Wagner’s “Bridal Chorus” soared, and butterflies caught on the frayed nerves in my stomach.
Me, Alessandra Ferreira. Getting married.
I couldn’t wrap my head around the concept. I’d fantasized about my Prince Charming here and there as a child, and I’d lingered on pictures of pretty wedding dresses on Pinterest when I came across them as I got older, but I’d never imagined I would marry this young. I was only twenty-three, fresh out of college and trying to navigate the post-school world. What did I know about marriage?
The skirt of my white satin gown rustled with each step. It was a simple ceremony with no more than fifty guests in attendance, much to my mother’s chagrin, but neither Dominic nor I had wanted any extraneous fanfare.
Dominic. He stood at the altar, his hands clasped in front of him and his posture ramrod straight.
White jacket. Black pants. Rose boutonnière pinned to his lapel.
Devastating.
And when his gaze caught mine, holding it captive, my nerves fell away like autumn leaves in the wind. His muscles were visibly tense, but his face radiated so much love I could feel the warm tendrils wrap around me from halfway across the room.
People looked at him and only saw the harsh edges and cold exterior.
They ruminated over why the daughter of a famous supermodel was dating a “nobody,” and they whispered about us getting married too young, too soon, and too quick.
I didn’t care. They could gossip all they wanted; I didn’t need their validation or extra time to know he was the one.
“Perfect,” Dominic whispered when I reached the altar.
I gave him a shy smile, my chest full to the point of bursting. Life contained few certainties, but at that moment, I was sure that I was the luckiest girl alive.
I stopped at the present-day altar. I couldn’t breathe past the tears lodged in my throat, and it took every ounce of willpower to force my memories back into the padlocked box where they belonged.
Don’t look at him.
If I looked at him, I would break down, and the last thing I needed was to embarrass myself at my mother’s wedding.
I was so focused on not crying, I only half paid attention to the ceremony. God, this was a bad idea. What had made me think I could do this so soon after my divorce?
Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him. Do. Not. Look at him. I would’ve been a horrible daughter if I’d skipped the event altogether, but I should’ve insisted on attending as a regular guest. I’d played bridesmaid enough times, and the wedding was so low-key, my mother didn’t need someone to stand there holding a bunch of lilies while she recited her vows in English and Portuguese.
The familiar cadence of the words broke the padlock. Memories escaped again, flooding my brain with echoes of my own vows to Dominic.
“I promise to support you, inspire you, and, above all, love you always
—for better or worse, in sickness and health, for richer or poorer. You are my one and only, today, tomorrow, and forever.”
I’d never broken my last vow. Not when I’d moved out, not when I’d served the divorce papers, and not when I’d pushed him away. I’d promised to love Dominic always and I did, even when I shouldn’t.
A tear trickled down my cheek. I wiped it away, but in my haste, I made my biggest mistake of the day.
I looked at him.
And once I did, I couldn’t look away.
