PROLOGUE – PIERCE
Weddings are always harderwhen you’re the villain of the story.
The rough stone of the garden wall presses into my back through my suit jacket, a welcome discomfort as I lean against it in the shadows, far from the glow of the paper lanterns inside the reception marquee.
My fingers find my tie for the hundredth time tonight, straightening what doesn’t need straightening, while I watch my ex move across the dancefloor with his new husband.
Noah leads him in a perfect slow dance, their bodies moving with the ease of two people who know each other’s rhythms by heart. The way Lior looks at him, that soft, unguarded expression I never earned, makes my chest tighten. The music pulses around me, some modern love song that feels like it’s taunting me with its lyrics about second chances and forever.
I took Lior for granted. That’s the truth that haunts me, even now. And just because he has forgiven me, doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven myself.
My jaw clenches so hard it aches, but I can’tseem to relax it. The tie feels too tight now, but I resist the urge to loosen it. Even here, hiding in the shadows like a ghost, I cling to the only armor I have. A perfect Windsor knot and precisely pressed suit.
The string lights above the dancefloor catch the silver in Lior’s hair as he throws his head back, laughing at something Noah whispered. The sight twists deep in my gut. Not jealousy exactly, but recognition of what I lost through my own foolishness. What I never actually had.
I close my eyes against the image, letting the cool night air wash over me. The garden’s perfume—roses and jasmine competing with my expensive cologne—does little to settle my churning thoughts. I should leave. There’s no reason to torture myself by staying, except perhaps some masochistic need to witness the happiness I tried to sabotage. Just as I’m about to push away from the wall, movement catches my attention.
A figure emerges from the lantern-lit path, moving with the determination of someone who’s trying very hard not to spill the two champagne flutes in his hands. His suit is clearly expensive but somehow manages to look like he slept in it, an impressive feat considering it’s barely past eight.
He navigates the cobblestones with the concentration of a tightrope walker, tongue caught between his teeth, before successfully reaching my shadowed corner. Up close, I can see he’s younger than I initially thought, probably early thirties, with barely tamed curls and a face that seems designed for smiling.
“Hiding from the world’s worst DJ, or is it something more interesting?” he asks, extending one of the champagne flutes toward me. His voice carries a warmth that seems to defy the evening chill. I accept the glass reflexively, too confused by his approach to do anything else.
“I thought I was being subtle about my critique of the playlist,” I reply. The stranger’s face lights up at my words, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners and transforming his whole expression.
“Subtle? Please. I saw you wince during that mashup of ‘Sweet Caroline’ and ‘Baby Got Back.’ I thought you might need reinforcements.” He settles against the wall beside me, our shoulders almost touching. His cologne is subtle but present—something citrusy and fresh that cuts through the garden’s heavy floral scent.
The space between us feels charged, but I can’t tell what with. It’s not exactly comfort because I don’t do comfort with strangers, but it’s…easier than the suffocating atmosphere by the dancefloor. He takes a sip of his champagne and makes an exaggerated face of consideration, like a sommelier at a wine tasting.
“Ah, yes, notes of bubble and…more bubble. Truly inspired.” His mock-serious tone draws an unexpected chuckle from me, and for the first time tonight, my tie doesn’t feel quite so much like a noose.
I study him over the rim of my champagne glass, struck by how disarming his presence is. Curly hair tumbles almost to his shoulders, the kind of untamed chaos that suggests he either doesn’t own a comb or has made a conscious decision to ignore one. A short scruff covers his jaw—not styled, just naturally grown—and there’s a small scar cutting through his right eyebrow that makes me wonder about the story behind it. But it’s his eyes that hold me captive. Blue, but not a simple blue. They’re layered like the Caribbean Sea, shifting between shades of turquoise and cobalt depending on how the light catches them.
The expensive champagne flows down my throat, bubbles fizzing on my tongue.
At forty-six years old, I should be able to read another man so much better. Then again, my presence at my ex’s wedding is enough evidence that, apart from the gut feeling that this man is into men, everything else is as elusive as a winning lottery ticket.
“You look like someone who’s lost something important tonight,” he says, his voice gentle but direct. The observation catches me off guard.
“I haven’t lost anything,” I reply, but the words sound hollow even to me. “I gave it away.” The admission slips out before I can stop it. The champagne must be working extra fast on me tonight.
He shifts beside me, and I become acutely aware of how close we’re standing. The warmth of his body seems to reach across the inches between us, making my skin prickle with awareness. “Sometimes giving things away is harder than losing them,” he says. “At least with losing, you can pretend it wasn’t your choice.”
I turn to look at him properly, struck by the lack of judgment in his tone. His lips curve into a slight smile. Not the broad grin from before, but something softer, more intimate. A stray curl has fallen across his forehead, and my fingers itch with the inexplicable urge to brush it back.
“You’re not like the rest of the wedding crowd,” I observe, watching the way his throat moves as he takes another sip of champagne. His collar is slightly askew, the knot of his tie looser than any I’ve ever worn.
“Thank god for that.” He laughs, and the sound seems to vibrate through the scant space between us. His eyes meet mine, and an electric thrill runs through me. The garden sounds fade, replaced by the thundering of my pulse in my ears.
This guy has to be a good fifteen years younger than me,and he looks as comfortable in his suit with his curls barely tamed as I am outside of mine.
My gut tells me I’m not the only one playing a role here. I’m not the only one plotting an escape route. But I’ve been wrong before. More times than I care to admit.
His pupils are dilated in the dim light, and I can’t stop staring at the way his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip.
“You know,” he says, leaning closer with a smile that’s equal parts shy and daring, “I bet there’s somewhere quieter where we could continue critiquing the DJ’s playlist.” His fingers brush against my sleeve, featherlight but with intent. “Unless you’d rather stay here and suffer through another round of ‘YMCA?’”
Of all the bad decisions I’ve made in my life, this wouldn’t be the worst, but certainly not one of the best either.
