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of Belgravitas.”
    “You’re kidding, right?” God, she hoped Jo was kidding. She didn’t want to make a fool of herself in front of honest-to-God royalty.
    “Nope. His wife, the princess Susanna, used to date Phillip.”
    “Get
out
.”
    “I’m serious. Drake—the rapper—will be there, as well. He and Phillip are friends. Jay Z and Beyoncé had a scheduling conflict, but—”
    “Seriously?”
It wasn’t as though she didn’t know that Phillip Beaumont was a famous guy—all those commercials, all those stories about parties he hosted at music festivals—but this was crazy.
    “If you drop out,” Jo went on, “who on earth am I going to get to replace you? Out of the two hundred people who’ll be at the wedding and the six hundred who’ll be at the reception, you know how many I invited? My parents, my grandma Lina, my uncle Larry and aunt Penny, and my parents’ neighbors. Eleven people. That’s it. That’s all I have. And you.”
    Whitney didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to do this, not after last night. But Jo was one of her few friends. Someone who didn’t care about Whitney Wildz or
Growing Up Wildz
or even that horrible Christmas album she’d put out,
Whitney Wildz Sings Christmas, Yo.
    She didn’t want to disappoint her friend.
    “Honestly,” Jo said, “there’s going to be so many egos on display that I doubt people will even realize who you are. Don’t take that the wrong way.”
    “I won’t,” Whitney said with a smile. She could do this. She could pull off normal for a few weeks. She couldn’t compete with that guest list. She was just the maid of honor. Who would notice her, anyway? Besides Matthew, that was...
    “And you’re right. It won’t be like that last fund-raiser.”
    “Exactly,” Jo said, sounding encouraging. “You were the headliner there—of course people were watching you. Matthew only acted like he did because he’s a perfectionist. I truly believe you’ll be fine.” She pulled into a parking lot. “It’ll be fine.”
    “All right,” Whitney agreed. She didn’t quite believe the sentiment but she couldn’t disappoint Jo. “It will be fine.”
    “Good.”
    They got out. Whitney stared at the facade of the Bridal Collection. This was it. Once she was in the dress, there was no backing out.
    Oh, who was she kidding? There was no backing out anyway. Jo was right. They were the kind of people who didn’t have huge social circles or celebrities on speed dial. They were horse people. She and Jo got along only because they both loved animals and they both had changed their ways.
    “You’re really having a wedding with Grammy winners and crown princes?”
    “Yup,” Jo said, shaking her head. “Honestly, though, it’s not the over-the-top wedding that matters. It’s the marriage. Besides,” she added as they went inside, “David Guetta is going to be doing the music for the reception. How cool is that?”
    “Pretty cool,” Whitney agreed. She didn’t recognize the name, but then, why would she? She wasn’t famous anymore.
    Maybe Jo was right. No one would care about her. She’d managed to stay out of the headlines for almost three years, after all—that was a lifetime in today’s 24/7 news cycle. In that time, there’d been other former teen stars who’d grabbed much bigger headlines for much more scandalous reasons.
    They walked into the boutique to find Matthew pacing between rows of frothy white dresses and decorations that were probably supposed to be Christmas trees but really looked more as though someone had dipped pipe cleaners in glitter. The whole place was so bright it made her eyes hurt.
    Matthew—wearing dark gray trousers and a button-up shirt with a red tie under his deep green sweater—was so out of place that she couldn’t
not
look at him. She wouldn’t have thought it possible, but he looked even better today than he had the other night. As she appreciated all the goodness that was Matthew Beaumont, he