I want to stab Jagger with my fork for agreeing.
But I can't.
So I sit there, smiling, nodding, playing the part of the delighted girlfriend who just got proposed to in the most unromantic way possible.
“To Jagger and Adena,” Marquez raises his glass.
I lift my champagne to my lips but can’t bring myself to swallow.
Valentina leans forward, eyes bright with satisfaction.“We’ll have to throw you a party when you get back.Celebrate properly.”
“That’s generous,” I hear myself say.The words come from somewhere outside my body, like this is happening to someone else.
Ortega grins.“Vegas weddings.Quick and easy.How I like things.”
I keep my pageant smile on, barely listening as more drinks flow and the conversation swirls around me.Toasts.Laughter.Plans for Vegas that sound more like a prison sentence than a celebration.
Every minute feels like drowning in slow motion.
This goes beyond duty.Beyond anything I could have imagined.
Finally, Marquez signals to the waiter.He doesn't pay—just stands, and the staff moves like he owns the air they breathe.He makes a production of telling Ortega he's in charge of everything tonight.The club.The people in it.All of it.
A reminder of power.Control.
We follow them out into the humid New Orleans night.Marquez's hand rests possessively on Valentina's lower back like a brand of ownership.Ortega stumbles slightly on the curb, drunk, while Valentina's smile is sharp-edged and triumphant.
The valet brings the Audi around, and Jagger opens my door.
"Take me to Tommy's grave," I say.
He stops mid-motion, his hand still on the door frame.He doesn't argue, just says goodnight to everyone, pulls out into the street, and drives.
The silence in the car is suffocating.I stare out the window at the blur of neon signs and wrought-iron balconies, the distant thump of bass from open bar doors, the tourists laughing on street corners.Neither of us looks at the other.
The cemetery gates are locked when we arrive—chain wrapped through iron, padlock heavy and old.But nothing is stopping me now we're here.I might need to yell, and no shower will cover that.
I'm out of the car before he's even cut the engine.I hitch the dress up, find a foothold, and pull myself over.The fabric tears—a long rip up the side—and I feel it give way with savage satisfaction.
Tombstones rise around me in the dark—white marble and crumbling stone, names worn away by time and weather.Spanish moss hangs heavy from the live oaks, swaying in the humid breeze.Thunder rumbles somewhere far off.The city of the dead.Jagger may well join them if I don't get control of myself.
I stop in front of Tommy's grave and try to gather my thoughts into something reasonable.
But there's nothing reasonable about any of this.
"I had no choice," he says behind me.
A rip of laughter erupts from my throat."No choice?How about saying no?Or 'let me talk to Adena about it'?Or literally anything except 'sure, why not'?"
His jaw works."We'll work out the legal implications afterward."
My whole body locks up as the realization crashes through me."Work out what legal implications?The marriage won't be authentic."
His fingers pluck at his collar like it's strangling him.His mouth twists to one side.“They didn’t warn you, did they?”
My stomach drops to the moss beneath me."Jagger."My voice wavers."Tell me you're using a fake name."
The silence is answer enough.
