Ariana’s POV
“You’re not wearing that,” my mom said, waving a perfectly manicured hand at the black dress I’d just pulled from the rack. “This isn’t a funeral, Ariana.”
I bit the inside of my cheek.
She was in full control mode clipboard in hand, Bluetooth in her ear, barking orders at a planner and a florist like we weren’t six days away from her second wedding to the same man.
“Try this one.” She shoved a pale blue satin dress into my arms. Strapless. Tight. The color of disappointment.
I didn’t argue.
Mostly because I was too busy trying not to throw up.
From nerves. From guilt.
From the way Roman hadn’t looked me in the eye since we got back from the beach.
I slipped into the dressing room, peeling off my hoodie and jeans. My body still ached from him. Not just from the things
