A toast to hell

I wondered when this miserable wedding would finally reach its end. It was already 5 p.m., and yet, not a single soul had left. For the love of Christ, take your damn drinks and go home! I muttered under my breath, barely restraining the urge to scream.

My eyes roamed the room, searching—no, hoping—for a glimpse of him. But Mr. Handsome was nowhere to be found. Just my luck. Was it too much to ask for one last look at that perfectly sculpted face? Even for just a second?

“What’s got your panties in a twist?”

I didn’t need to turn to recognize that voice. Kyle. He plopped down beside me, stretching his legs out lazily as if he too had long accepted the agony of this never-ending wedding.

I rubbed my temple, suppressing a groan.

Now, for those of you wondering, Kyle is my best friend. We’ve known each other since diaper days. He’s the only one in my life who doesn’t make me want to commit murder on a daily basis. He’s also my age—though I like to remind him that I’m a few months older.

At one point in our tragic youth, he had a hopeless crush on Rebekah. Because, of course, he did. She was blonde, beautiful, and had the entire world wrapped around her manicured little finger. Yuck. His infatuation, thankfully, met a gruesome end when she decided to destroy my reputation by spreading a delightful little lie—one that suggested I had slept with some random guy.

Me. A virgin. At my age.

And that deranged bitch had the audacity to make me look like some kind of harlot.

“How’s Roxie?” I asked, shaking off the bitter memory.

Kyle’s face softened instantly, a stupid lovestruck grin spreading across his lips. Pathetic. But also kind of cute.

“She’s good,” he sighed. “She couldn’t make it today. Got her period.”

I snorted. “Damn. Guess that means no sex for a week, huh?”

He shot me a playful glare before lightly punching my arm.

The world around us was still buzzing—guests drinking, laughing, swarming the newlyweds with endless congratulations. Meanwhile, I sat in my isolated corner, wallowing in well-deserved self-pity.

I needed alcohol.

“Hey, I need to use the bathroom. Might take a while. See ya.” I barely waited for Kyle’s response before slipping out of the reception hall, my dress swishing around my ankles as I strode purposefully down the grand hallway.

But I wasn’t going to the bathroom.

I was going to the one place in this godforsaken hotel that would actually bring me some peace—the wine stall.

This place belonged to Leonardo’s uncle, so technically, I was family now. And if family couldn’t enjoy a few stolen bottles, what was even the point?

I stepped inside, inhaling deeply. The scent of aged wine and expensive liquor filled my senses, wrapping around me like a comforting embrace. My fingers traced the bottles on the shelf until they landed on the one I needed most—my beloved Cape Town.

Carefully, I slid it from its place, plopped down on the cool tiled floor, and uncorked the bottle with ease. The rich, bittersweet liquid slid down my throat in a perfect blend of pleasure and pain.

This. This was what I needed. Some fucking peace and quiet.

I sighed, leaning my head back against the shelf. Then, with absolutely no grace or hesitation, I raised my bottle in a mock toast to the universe.

“Fuck everyone,” I declared. “Fuck you, Dad. Fuck you, Mom. Go to hell, Ryder. And I pray to every god in existence that you fall on your face, Rebekah.”

The words spilled out effortlessly, fueled by the warm haze of alcohol. It felt good—so good—to finally say it. To finally be free of the suffocating weight of this goddamn family.

“Why is it that whenever we meet, you’re always in a foul mood?”

That voice.

That deep, commanding, impossibly frustrating voice.

I turned sharply, my vision slightly swimming, only to be met with the last person I wanted to see.

Sebastian.

Of fucking course.