"What's wrong with you?" Nicolas muttered, his voice low and rough as he leaned slightly toward her. His eyes, though, kept darting away. Landing on her forehead, her chin, her hair. Anywhere but the scar.
Hazel's expression did not change.
"Nothing," she said quietly. "I'm just thinking."
He frowned, confused. "Thinking about what?"
"When are you going to stop this wedding?" Her voice was calm, conversational, like she was asking about the weather. "Since you can't even stand to look at my face."
Nicolas's head snapped toward her, his eyes widening. "What are you saying, babe? I love you!" His voice rose slightly, drawing a glance from the minister, who paused uncertainly. "I don't care about your scar!"
Hazel stared at him.
For a long, terrible moment, she just looked at him, at his handsome face, his perfect suit, his lying eyes.
Then she smiled.
It was not a kind smile.
"You don't care about my scar," she repeated slowly. "Is that what you tell yourself?"
