Climbing the stairs, I grumble to myself, “Stupid New Year’s Eve at the casino.”
But maybe it’ll be a distraction, one I’ve been seeking for the last week. If I drink enough champagne, I can forget for a while. This is the exact reason people take pills to numb themselves.
But I’m already apathetic as it is.
The following day, Mom sends the hairdressers and stylists over to take care of mylookfor the evening. They swarm the room like well-trained bees while my hair gets blown into impossible smoothness—long strands teased, sprayed, perfumed.
A manicurist works on my fingers as my feet soak. She pauses at the small cut on my ring finger, and I shrug.
My new ink wedding band’s healed now, the skin no longer swollen. I keep a bandage over it to avoid questions, but beneath it, Aiden’s name circles my finger like a dangerous secret. One that could get me burned at the stake.
Wyatt waltzes in, wearing a dimples-deep grin, checking out the women in my room like he’s auditioning for a movie.
“Get out!” I snap from the vanity, halfway through a mascara stroke. He plops on the edge of my dresser, chest puffed proudly in a custom white tux that matches Dad’s.
“I’m already dressed.”
“Great. I don’t care. Doesn’t take men a long time to get ready.”
“It did.” His sunshine-y face, a mirror image of our father’s, looks smug and too sure of himself. “Kim there gave me a fresh cut.” There’s a flirty lilt in his voice that makes my stomach flip in a nasty way.
“He’s sixteen,” I say.
Kim giggles in reply. “Then tell him to act like it.”
“Leave my room,now.”
He winks at the hairdresser and sashays out like a celebrity who can never be canceled.
“Do you want anything more to drink, Ashlyn?” the makeup artist asks, scanning the beadwork on my gown for any flaws. It’s Art Deco: molten gold and amber sequins, a halter that falls into a long drop cape. Beautiful. Heavy. Showy enough to pull every camera lens my mother owns.
“Yeah, another champagne, please. And some more brie.”
It helps to wash away the thoughts. Am I glad I told Aiden? No. I should’ve protected him from the pain, just like I wish someone had done for me. In the mirror, I scan the patio doors. Someone threatened to open the shades earlier, but I forbade them. I can’t look. Not today.
“You’re smudging your mascara,” the makeup artist murmurs, gentle as a nurse. She dabs at a tear that slips from my lashes.
“Sorry.” I brush my cheek and let it go.
“I heard you and Moretti broke up,” she says. Her tone is neutral, but a tiny symphony of sympathy carries with it. “That’s rough.”
I nod, give the expected noncommittal answer, and let them finish me like an exhibit—hair pinned, lashes fanned, gown zipped until the seams protest.
By evening, I’m in the limo, on time. Steady on the outside, with a polite buzz under my tongue. Not drunk enough to drop my guard.
Not drunk enough to forget.
When we pull up to the overhang, photographers are waiting, flashing their cameras against the tinted glass. As soon as my door opens, my body revolts.
Talon reaches his hand out toward me with a broad smile painted on his lips. “Take my hand,” he commands with a darkened gaze.
I glance at my parents, who both nod and scoot closer to the exit.
“Are you serious?” I ask. But they don’t respond.
Instead of doing as he said, I shuffle out of the car myself, almost tripping over the train. As I do, Talon grabs my arm and places it around his to steady me.
Chest tight. Breath shallow. Teetering on a stiletto, I barrel down the runway while he tries to keep up. I’m more drunk than I thought, and that’s the only reason I leave my hand where it is.