I find a corner near the bar and try to blend into the wallpaper. Press my back against the cool wall, champagne glass in hand that I'm not drinking, just holding for something to do.
It works for about ten minutes.
"You must be Max."
I turn. Nearly spill my champagne. Catch it at the last second.
The man standing beside me is tall—six-three at least—with dark hair that's going silver at the temples and sharp gray eyes that feel like they're cataloging everything about me. The exact shade of my suit. The way I'm standing. The death grip I have on my glass. His suit probably costs more than a semester of tuition. Navy blue, perfectly tailored, not a single wrinkle despite the summer heat. He's handsome in that cold, controlled way that makes you stand up straighter without meaning to. Broad shoulders. Strong jaw. The kind of face that belongs on a billboard.
"Yeah," I say. My voice comes out smaller than I want it to. "Hi."
"Atlas Graves." He extends a hand. Long fingers. Clean nails. A watch on his wrist that gleams gold.
I shake it. His palm is warm, dry. Mine is probably clammy. His grip is firm. Confident. Not crushing, but strong enough to make a point. Strong enough that I feel small in comparison.
"Richard's told us about you," Atlas says, releasing my hand. He doesn't wipe his palm on his pants, but I wonder if he wants to. "Welcome to the family."
The words sound practiced. Polite. Empty. Like he's said them a hundred times to a hundred different people and none of them mattered.
"Thanks." I take a sip of champagne I don't want. The bubbles are too sharp, too sweet.
He orders a drink from the bartender—whiskey, neat—his voice low and authoritative, the bartender jumping to pour it immediately, and I feel him watching me from the corner of his eye. That assessing gaze. Calculating. Measuring.
"You look uncomfortable," he observes. He takes a slow sip, and I watch his throat work as he swallows.
"I'm fine."
"Liar." He says it without heat. Almost amused.
I blink. Stare at him.
He takes a sip of his drink. The ice clinks against the glass. "You don't have to pretend. Weddings are uncomfortable for everyone. Especially when you're the odd man out."
"I'm not—"
"You are." He says it matter-of-factly. Not cruel, just honest. He turns to face me fully now, one elbow on the bar, body angled toward mine. "Margot's son. Richard's new stepson. You don't fit into any of the boxes people expect."
My throat tightens. I swallow hard, and it feels like swallowing glass.
"But that's not necessarily a bad thing," Atlas continues. "Richard's happy. Margot's happy. That's what matters."
He sounds like he's trying to convince himself.
"Are you happy?" I ask before I can stop myself. The words just tumble out, unfiltered.
His eyes cut to me. Sharp. Assessing. Gray like storm clouds. Like steel.
"That's a bold question."
"Sorry. I didn't—" I look away, stare at my champagne, feel heat creep up my neck.
"No." He tilts his head slightly. "I like it. Most people don't ask real questions."
He doesn't answer, though.
Just takes another sip of whiskey—a longer one this time, like he needs it—and turns his attention to the dance floor, where Richard and Margot are swaying together, lost in their own world. Her head on his shoulder. His arms wrapped around her waist. They look happy. They look right.
"They're good together," Atlas says quietly. There's something in his voice I can't name. Something that sounds like loss.
