Page 48 of A Match Made in Error

“Bought?” the other girl laughs. “Yours inherited everything and still manages to be irrelevant.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—does yours even have a seat at court?”

“Does yours know how to keep one?”

And just like that, the room tilts.

Voices rise. Chairs scrape. Someone knocks over a glass, the sharp crack echoing.

I blink, the sudden shift almost dizzying.

Aoife exhales softly, somewhere between amusement and resignation. “And there it is.”

The argument escalates fast. Words like status, alliances, and power are being thrown around like weapons. Other women chime in, some defending, some provoking, until it is less a conversation and more a full-blown shouting match.

Angora rolls her eyes, turning back to her food as if none of it matters.

But I notice the tightness in her jaw and the way her fingers curl a little too firmly around her glass.

I look down at my plate, at the carefully arranged, beautiful food.

At the ridiculousness of all of it.

“Is this what ‘girls’ night’ is supposed to be?” I mutter.

Aoife huffs a quiet laugh. “Depends on the girls.”

I pick up my fork again, though my appetite has dulled slightly. “I think I’m doing it wrong.”

Aoife tilts her head, studying me. “Or you’re just not pretending as hard as everyone else.”

I pause. The word pretending nearly stopping my heart.

Across the room, the argument surges louder, someone now standing, another pointing a finger.

Fake dating. Strategic matches. Power plays dressed up as romance.

“What?” I choke out.

Aoife’s brows bend. “At acting like you like the other girls,” she clarifies.

I laugh, forcefully, and take another bite, the saffron suddenly harder to taste.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Maybe.”

“Ladies, please, stop it,” a helper of Fate begs. “Please, talk about anything else. And you two,” he points at Angora and a witch she seems to be in a staring contest with. “For the love of Fate, stay away from one another.”

Silence permeates the space before a druid woman in the corner gets a wicked grin and says, “I wonder whose match is the biggest.” That’s my cue.

“Since dinner is over, and as it was the only official item on our agenda tonight, I think I’m going to leave,” I whisper to Aoife.

Her eyes are wide, and if she had pearls, I think she’d be clutching them. “Me too.”

Cool night air hits me like relief. The drama in that room was oppressive. I wave goodbye to Aoife, promising to catch up with her another day, and start the short walk back to my bungalow. The path is elevated above sea level, putting me about twenty feet above the water. In the distance, I see the sun dipping below the horizon, serving as a backdrop to the snapping arms of the kraken that both guards the waters to protect us while also trapping us here. Waves crash against the rocks below, the sound accented by the hum of cicadas and the flicker of wind threatening to blow out the lantern lights.

Bioluminescent algae dances under the boardwalk, lighting my way past the other bungalows until I make my way to mine. Some candles are lit inside, a light glowing faintly enough to let me see Riven’s outline in the window. Guess he bailed out of guys’ night early. Shocking, considering how much he likes a good party and an open bar.

My energy shifts with the opening of the door. As annoyed as I can be with Riven, and as put out this entire Festival debacle is for me, he is still one of my safe spaces. My shoulders relax, and I feel the line between my brows melt away. He’s dancing again, though there is no music, so this is a telltale sign of his intoxication. His body isn’t moving with as much finesse as it was at the talent show, but he still looks good doing it.