Phantom Rider - The Reckoning | Book 2

#59 | Smile, Mila!

Mila's POV

I inhaled deeply, hiding my growing excitement, before turning to face him.

Bill, why do you always need to make a grand entrance?

The moment my eyes found a person standing in the door frame, I instinctively spun back. No one moved. No one made a sound. I looked at Dylan, my eyes wild with shock. What have you... It was my turn to act, to run. Move, Mila. Now.

I picked up the pace and hurried towards the door, trying to slip past him with as much subtlety as I could muster, but of course, he blocked my path. I dropped the bouquet of flowers I was holding onto the ground, hoping to distract him.

"Let me help you, sweetie." Victor bent down and grabbed the bouquet with one hand while clamping down on my dress with the other. His voice was sugar-coated poison. "Don't make a scene. Everyone's watching."

Oh, sweetie, watch me, I thought. If there was something I knew how to make—it was a scene.

I stomped, aiming for his foot with my sharp heels, but the bastard anticipated it, sidestepping at the last second with the grace of someone far too familiar with my temper.

His hand crept toward my elbow, securing me in place while he laughed kindly, as if we were exchanging an inside joke. "Smile, daughter. It's your wedding."

"Let. Me. Go." Poison from his touch spread through my entire being.

I hadn't seen him for a long time, but now that he was here, I couldn't look away. He had the face of the dad I always longed for but never had. He was older, sure. Lines carved deeper into his face, his eyes even colder. But beneath that aging mask was the same man who had haunted my life, unchanged in all the ways that mattered. 

"Let me walk you down the aisle," he said louder now, his words precisely timed to be heard by everyone in the venue. His smile turned into a weapon. To everyone observing, he was having the time of his life as the proud father of the bride.

"No." I trembled in defiance as I spoke. "I'm leaving."

I glanced back at Dylan. Did he know? Did he let this happen? Did he invite him? Dylan's eyes were glued to his family, avoiding mine entirely, which made him look even more guilty.

Then I stole the bouquet from my father's arms—because apparently, this was my only weapon—and straightened, ready to march down that aisle like it was a battlefield. If I couldn't avoid this, I'd at least go down swinging them straight into Dylan's face.

But suddenly, with a deceptively delicate touch, my father dug his finger into my collarbone, sending a sharp pain through me. Of course, he still knew exactly where to hurt me, unseen.

"Hug me," he whispered, breathing a nauseating peppermint cloud in my ear.

"No."

He didn't ask twice. He never did. His arms locked around me in an iron grip, and with his mouth so close it felt like a violation, he delivered the blow that made my knees buckle.

"Bill gets a bullet between his eyes the moment you leave."

My heart seized. "I don't believe you."

"I dare you—check for yourself," he said so casually it made my stomach flip. "Now, will you let your father walk you?" He extended his arm in the manner of a caring dad.

I was in the wrong place, wrong time, wrong dress. It was Sergei who had to lead me to the altar. And it was Bill who was supposed to stand there. 

Despite that, I held onto his elbow. I didn't cry. I didn't fight. I smiled as the music started again, guests relaxing back into their seats, oblivious. Dylan smiled too, the same soft smile he'd always given me.

When Victor's steely grip finally released me, it was replaced by Dylan's warm hand. I clung to it, searching his face for answers, for some sign of betrayal or regret. Help me, I begged silently with my eyes, but Dylan only looked at me with love-struck innocence. Was he the best actor I have ever seen in my life? One part of me wanted to blame him, so it would be easier for me to leave.

The ceremony blurred into a series of hollow motions. The pastor spoke, Dylan recited vows, and I said mine with all the conviction of someone auditioning for an award-winning role. Part of me meant them. Dylan was kind, thoughtful, and patient. He'd never argue or raise his voice. He was good to me all this time.

But as I spoke, I waited for his mask to slip—for him to reveal the cracks I couldn't stop imagining. Would they show after I said "I do"? Or had they been there all along, hidden behind that blinding smile?

"Mila Ekaterina Petrova, do you take Dylan Émeric Montclair as your lawful husband...?"

A pause. Long enough to ruin me. Long enough for me to picture every alternative life—every exit strategy, every fantasy where I stood tall, ripped the veil off, and bolted out the door. Or maybe I'd laugh in Victor's face, shred his threats into ribbons, and end this all with a glorious No.

My lips parted. I felt the word forming, arrogant and rebellious, on the tip of my tongue.

No!

My audience was a blur, faces blending into one judgmental mass, but their silence was a roar. They were waiting. For my answer. I was waiting for a miracle. In the form of a 1.92-meter tall, brown-eyed, tattooed, and pierced man dressed in black.

I looked at Dylan. His calm, steady presence, his stupidly sincere smile. My supposed salvation wrapped in an Armani suit. He seemed so sure, so untouchable. And yet, deep down, I wondered if he felt it. If he'd still wear that smile if he knew I was standing here for another man.

Then I saved and betrayed Bill at once. "Yes, I do."

Words didn't sound like mine, didn't feel like mine, but they were out there now, irreversible. I didn't even hear Dylan's "I do."

"I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride," the pastor announced.

Dylan smiled gently. I looked into his eyes, scanning them for any inconsistency, for anything, really, that would tell me what the hell was happening now. Then he kissed me. Funny how his kisses had become familiar to me. How I associated him with peace and safety.

And the person who I thought brought all the destruction was taken away from me the only time I needed him to destroy everything. A single tear escaped the corner of my eye thinking of Bill. My now husband noticed and wiped it away as if that tear belonged to him. That was not his tear to claim.

I was now a stuffed animal holding his arm as we walked outside the venue. Guests threw rose petals over our heads; everyone cheered and smiled. His parents couldn't even tell that their son had gotten another dead bird to keep on his shelf.

Did he even care? That bird in his office with its scary crystal eyes always made me feel uncomfortable. Now I felt like I had figured out a part of him that I was looking for all along—the reason to run away.

It just came too late, but probably—that was the plan all along.

I wasn't the runaway bride.

I wasn't a heroine. I wasn't a warrior.

I was just a girl who gave up.