Chapter 23 Lottie #2
“Maybe,” Claire says smoothly, her eyes cutting toward me. “I’m here to protect Lottie. Anything after that is up to fate.”
Angel cackles, already dragging us through the doorway.
Inside, bass rumbles through the floor like a second heartbeat.
The air is thick with perfume, sweat, and neon lights.
Angel walks like she owns the place, tossing her hair and striding toward the bar.
Zara follows with a half-smile, her eyes scanning the scene like she’s writing a paper on human mating rituals.
Angel smacks cash onto the counter before I can even blink. “Three tequilas, three whiskeys, and something offensively pink for her,” she says, pointing at me.
The bartender arches a brow. “That’s your warm-up?”
Angel flashes teeth. “Obviously.”
Zara laughs softly, sweater slipping further down her shoulder. “She’s going to kill you,” she murmurs to me.
“She needs it,” Angel cuts in, pressing a glass into my hand.
I stare at the clear liquid in the glass, my reflection wobbling on the surface. Tired. Frayed. Haunted. Zara clinks her glass gently against mine.“To surviving.”
“To surviving,” Angel echoes, wicked grin snapping back into place. “And to getting all the D.”
The tequila sears down my throat. I cough, sputter, and Angel howls with laughter while Zara pats my back. For a fleeting second, the weight in my chest loosens.
By the second round, Angel’s perched against my shoulder, hair brushing my cheek, eyes glinting like a cat with claws half out. “So, spill. You’ve been more MIA than my last vibrator charger. What’s going on?”
Zara’s voice is quieter, but her eyes don’t miss a thing. “You do look different. Like you’re somewhere else.”
I let out a sharp laugh that sounds more like a crack. “Because my life’s a bad soap opera. And I just got the biggest plot twist of all.”
Angel perks up instantly. “Oh, bitch. Don’t tease me with good drama.”
I swirl the neon cocktail in my hand, watching the ice shift. “I’m married.”
Zara nearly chokes on her drink. Angel freezes, eyes going wide. “Married?” She grabs my wrist and inspects my fingers like the ring might materialize. “When? To who? Why haven’t we staged a divorce party yet?”
My stomach twists. I force the words out. “To Elijah.”
The silence is brutal. Even the bass seems to falter. Zara blinks once. Twice. Angel’s jaw drops, and then she bursts into laughter that dies almost as fast as it starts.
“Elijah? Broody, I-might-stab-you Elijah?” Angel leans in, eyes wide. “When the hell did that happen? Don’t tell me you were blackout drunk, because—”
“I didn’t know.” The words rip out of me, raw. “He did it when he thought I’d died.”
Zara’s mouth parts in shock. “He—he what?”
“He married me,” I whisper, throat tight. “When he thought I was gone. Paperwork, signatures, all of it. I only just found out.”
Angel stares at me like she’s trying to decide if I’m joking. “You mean to tell me, you woke up one day and found out you’ve been Mrs. Tall-Dark-and-Terrifying this whole time without knowing it?”
My laugh is bitter and broken. “Pretty much.”
Zara sets her drink down, her calm cracking. “That’s… that’s insane. That’s not even romantic, that’s—”
“Possessive,” Angel snaps, fury flickering in her tone. “He claimed you like a fucking object. Who does that?”
I dig my nails into the glass. “He said it was because he couldn’t let me go. Because he wanted to keep me with him, even if I was—” My voice falters. “Even if I was gone.”
Angel blinks at me, then exhales sharply through her nose. “Okay, but if you’re technically married to him, you realize you could take half his money, right? Divorce party, champagne tower, me in a white dress just to make it weird—”
Zara chokes on a laugh, covering her mouth. Even I can’t help it—a weak giggle bubbles up through the knot in my chest.
“I get why he did it,” I murmur, staring down at the swirl of neon in my drink. “I do. He’s not a monster, not like that. But it still feels like something was stolen from me.”
Angel’s hand lands on mine. “Then you steal something back. Starting tonight.” She jerks her head toward the dance floor, where bodies are moving under pulsing light. “Come on. We’re not sitting here crying over men and their bad decisions. We’re dancing it out.”
Zara hesitates, but when Angel grabs my wrist, she reaches for my other hand without a word. Claire, who’s been silent at my side, raises an eyebrow.
“I don’t dance,” she says flatly.
“Bullshit,” Angel says. “Everyone dances.”
Claire’s lips twitch like she’s trying not to smile. “Fine. But only so I can keep an eye on you idiots.”
Angel doesn’t give me a choice. She yanks me by the wrist, grinning like she’s about to set the room on fire, and drags me into the crush of bodies. The bass is a heartbeat under my skin, steady and relentless, and for the first time in too long, I let it take me.
Angel starts first. She always does. Her hips roll with practiced precision, shoulders loose, hair swinging like a whip. She’s not just dancing—she’s commanding the room, every flick of her wrist daring someone to look away.
And then I join her.
It takes a beat, but muscle memory kicks in.
My body knows this language. I match her step for step, sway for sway, our movements sharp and fluid all at once.
We circle each other, orbiting close, then pulling apart, only to collide again in a rhythm we don’t have to plan.
The crowd parts around us like they know better than to interfere.
Angel laughs, wild and bright, tossing her hair back as she hooks an arm around my neck and pulls me in, grinding against me in a way that makes half the club stop breathing. I smirk, pushing back, my own hips snapping to the beat, sharp enough to cut glass.
Zara is wide-eyed on the edge of the dance floor, sweater sleeves bunched in her fists like she doesn’t know whether to cheer or hide. Claire’s next to her, arms folded, looking unimpressed until I catch her mouth twitching—just barely—at the corner.
Angel spins me, and I lean into it, dropping low before rising up slow, my body brushing against hers until we’re face-to-face again. She cups my jaw, grinning like she owns me, but I snatch her hand away and shove her back just enough to make her stumble before pulling her in again.
It’s not stripping, but it carries the same edge, the same awareness of eyes, of power, of control. Angel and I know how to make movement dangerous, how to blur the line between performance and threat. And as we move together, it’s not about seduction.
It’s about survival.
It’s about proving we’re still alive.
By the time Zara finally steps into our orbit, tentative but smiling, and Claire reluctantly lets Angel tug her a few steps closer, I’m breathless, sweat cooling against my skin, but I don’t care. For the first time in a long time, the music is louder than the ghosts in my head.
And Angel’s laughter in my ear is louder than everything else.