CHAPTER 1
Rhiannon
Standing in front of a room full of everyone I know and blowing up my entire life sounded like the perfect revenge when I first came up with my master plan twelve weeks ago.
It took a while to convince myself that I wasn’t overreacting, even longer to commit to the idea of stepping out of line and doing something, anything to get my own back, never mind something so…public.
But now, my wedding day is finally here. Freedom is within my grasp. My palms are sweaty, my legs are trembling, and there’s a whooshing sound in my ears making it hard to focus on anything other than the thundering heart thrashing in my rib cage.
From the way everyone’s gaze has settled on me, I’ve missed the officiant’s cue to speak. I’m too busy picking at the nonexistent skin around my thumb’s perfectly manicured cuticle to speak. Because even the pretense of a wedding meant I had to get all glammed up.
I’d already bought the dress, so it needed to have its—albeit brief—moment in the sun. My titslook fucking incredible, and if I’m going to strike a match and scorch my life in front of an audience, I’m going to look like an ethereal goddess while I do so.
Our celebrant’s expectant stare burns my skin, making my cheeks heat even more.
My stomach is a heavy stone, pressing on my too-full bladder from the flute—or three—of Dutch courage I had right before the ceremony, and the unexpected urge to burst into hysterical giggles makes me press my lips together.
“Rhiannon?” George—my adulterous prick of a soon to be ex-fiancé—raises his brows at me with a Bambi-esque look in his big, brown faux-innocent-looking eyes.
Asshole probably thinks I’m nervous about saying “I do.”
I’m not at all uneasy because I’m not fucking saying it.
Bastard.
I decided three months ago that I wouldn’t say those words in this moment. I wouldn’t give either of the traitors a chance to redeem themselves. But torching everything to the ground in averypublic airing of dirty laundry suddenly feels very… exposed and ill-planned.
What the fuck was I thinking? I guess anger and embarrassment can make us do crazy things in the moment. But it’s been three months. Twelve weeks of stewing, stressing, and silently plotting a way to make them both pay.
I’m a fucking cliché, the fiancé and the best friend. I almost snort. She hasn’t been my best friend in a long time, but somehow, she’s standing on the makeshift altar beside me, while Bláthnaid, the woman whoshouldbe standing up with my sisters, tilts her head, a delicate wrinkle appearing between her perfectly arched brows.
I’m standing in a boutique wedding dress, in Ballygally Castle—a popular venue in Northern Ireland to get married—and I’m about to burn it all down.
Metaphorically speaking, of course.
Life as I know it is about to go “poof.”
“Take your time,” George whispers, squeezing my hand in an act of misplaced support, his clammy palm cupping mine. If he knew what I was about to do, I bet he would think twice about giving me that not-at-all reassuring squeeze.
I look at him,reallytaking in his appearance. Before, I’d have found him charming and handsome, but now, all I can focus on is his smarmy smile, his dishwater-brown eyes, and his slicked back dark hair. His suit trousers are just a fraction too short, leaving his bony ankles on display because he insists on wearing trainer socks with dress shoes.
What kind of sociopath invites blisters like that?
A heavy sigh presses on my chest. How did I ever find him attractive? I guess love alters perception, and betrayal redefines it.
If I could yank my hand out from under his, I would. But I don’t trust myself not to punch him in his smug-fucking-face and end up in a custody suite in Larne Police Station.
The celebrant gives me a warm, supportive smile and a nod of encouragement. Poor woman has no idea of the home truths I’m about to drop.
It’s about to go down like an episode of a shitty talk show.
I can’t bring myself to look over at Mum and Dad. Choosing to smear the Morrigan family name with scandal and gossip won’t go down well, with Dad especially. I’m hoping once his anger wears off, he’ll be proud of me for taking control of my life like this.
Fuck. What if he doesn’t?
I swallow, hard, but I refuse to let a moment of paralyzing uncertainty upend the last three months of careful planning to seize this moment of righteous comeuppance.
These two arseholes deserve their day in the sun.
