Page 75 of My Wedding Night Massacre

They're not wrong. I do love them. I met Tiana when we were fourteen, at a charity fundraiser neither of us wanted to attend. My father had sent me in a dress I hated, and her father had dragged her along because appearances mattered more than comfort in both our worlds.

We found each other hiding behind a dessert table, eating tiny pastries with our fingers and pretending we weren’t listening to men who spoke too quietly and smiled too sharply.

She looked at me, powdered sugar on her lips, and said, “Your dad scares people.”

I said, “Yours too.”

We’d been inseparable ever since.

Chloe crashed into our lives two years later—literally.

She knocked over my stack of textbooks in the school hallway, tripped over her own feet trying to apologize, and somehow managed to insult my shoes while doing it.

“They’re ugly,” she said, wincing. “But like… in an expensive way.”

Tiana laughed. I stared.

Chloe grinned like she’d just won something. “Hi. I think we’re friends now.”

And somehow—annoyingly—she was right.

We clink glasses, and I let the vodka burn its way down my throat. The DJ switches tracks, something with a heavier beat, and the crowd on the dance floor swells. I should feel it, that pull to move, to lose myself in the music. But I just feel tired.

Three weeks.

Then I see him.

He's in the VIP section, raised above the main floor like some kind of king surveying his kingdom. Silver hair—not gray, but actual silver, the kind that catches the light and makes you think of expensive things, dangerous things. The kind of hair that shouldn't be sexy but on him? On him it's devastating. He looks maybe forty, maybe older, but age sits on him like power. Like he's earned every year and made them all count.

A suit that probably costs more than most people's cars, tailored so perfectly it might as well be a second skin. Black, crisp, the kind of formal that says money and taste and don't-fuck-with-me all at once. Broad shoulders. Strong jaw. The kind of face that's seen things, done things, survived things.

He's not dancing, not drinking, just... watching.

And right now, he's watching me.

My breath stops.

Oh.

It's not like the movies, where everything goes slow motion and the music fades. The club's still loud, still chaotic, still full of writhing bodies and flashing lights. But there's this... thing. This pull. Like someone just plugged me into an electrical socket and forgot to warn me first.

His eyes are dark from this distance—almost black in the club lights—but they're locked on mine and I can't look away. Don't want to look away. My skin feels hot, too tight, like I'm suddenly aware of every inch of it.

My nipples tighten.

Just like that. Just from a look.

Am I going crazy?

I suck in a breath, cross my arms over my chest because what the hell, what the actual hell is happening to my body right now? I've been kissed, touched, groped by twenty-three different guys and felt nothing, but this man across the room just looked at me and my nipples are pressing against my bra like they're trying to get his attention.

Who is he?

"Earth to Rory." Chloe waves her hand in front of my face. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"She looks like she's seen something," Tiana says, following my gaze. Her eyes go wide. "Oh. Oh wow."

"What?" Chloe turns, scans the VIP section. "What are we—holy shit. Okay. Okay, I take back everything I said about you being picky. If that's your type, I completely understand why college boys did nothing for you."