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He nods at the glass.

Everyone’s watching.

Waiting.

I’m screwed.

End of.

“To us,” I say and drink the fucking lot.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

JACK

The front door opens at just gone eleven.

I sit bolt upright on the sofa, wide awake despite trying to lose myself in shit TV for hours.

I listen for footsteps.

Alice? Bryce?

Both?

I can dream.

No. There is only one set of footsteps.

Bryce steps into the living room without speaking, and the sight of him gives me an ugly shift in my guts.

He looks like shit. Full-on catastrophic shit.

His tie hangs around his neck like he just tried to strangle himself with it, shoulders hunched as though he’s carrying the weight of the universe. And his eyes are red. The fucker’s been crying. Fuck sake.

“What the hell happened?” I ask.

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. I go to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Bryce. Talk, please.”

He drags in a breath.

“Christopher proposed.”

“Proposed to Alice? Tonight? What the fuck?!”

“At dinner, yes.”

“And she accepted?”

Bryce looks away.

“She nodded.”

“That constitutes a yes, doesn’t it?”

“The ring is on her finger, so yes. It does.”