CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Kaia
“Kaia.” Alba knocked on the en suite door. “My dad’s outside. You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, my voice shaky. I wiped my mouth with toilet paper, flushed it, then brushed my teeth in a rush.
Throwing up on the morning of my father’s wedding wasn’t ideal, but nerves clawed at me.
Nerves over seeing Asher. Over watching my father tie himself to Asher’s mother, binding us into a family neither of us wanted. Messy and sharp, the feelings tangled in my throat.
I retouched my makeup, forced on a smile, and swung the door open.
“You look gorgeous,” Alba said. “But you need to stop puking. We’ll be late.”
She was spending the weekend with her dad, and they’d offered me a ride to Stetbourg. Better that than six hours in a car with some stranger from my father’s team.
It was six a.m., and Alba’s dad deserved an award for always showing up for her—and for treating me like one of his own.
“Wow.” Mr. Osorio grinned as we approached his car. “You’re not the one getting married, right, Kaia?”
My long red dress, slit to mid-thigh, was bold but hardly bridal.
“And her hair,” Alba added, beaming. “I told her to wear it down. Too shiny and gorgeous to hide.”
I nudged her. “Stop. I needed a boost, not an ego trip.”
She laughed and slid into the backseat.
“It’ll be okay, kiddo,” Mr. Osorio said as I climbed in beside her. “But if you want to bail, call us. We’ll rescue you.”
Something told me I might.
***
The cruel irony—my father chose our garden for the wedding. The same place where we’d once taken family photos with Mom.
Rows of white chairs filled a massive tent draped in roses. I hated sitting in the front row. Hated more that the chair beside me stayed empty.
Asher didn’t come.
Maybe it hurt too much to watch. Or maybe avoiding me was easier for both of us, sparing what was left of my heart.
An orchestra swelled, and Sharon appeared, her snow-white gown glittering as its train swept the carpet strewn with petals. She beamed, waving at strangers I couldn’t name.
I didn’t even know her. We never formed a bond, and we never would. To her, I’d always be the difficult teenager she had to tolerate. To me, she’d always be the woman meant to replace Mom.
Dad’s eyes lit on her, all the scorn he saved for me erased.
I looked away as Sharon reached him and he took her hands.
The middle-aged officiant cleared his throat, calling for silence. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness and—” Murmurs rippled through the crowd. He turned toward the entrance, lips pressed thin.
My gaze followed—and the world stilled.
Asher walked down the aisle. Black leather jacket. Boots. Messy hair. The face I adored, thinner, worn. My chest squeezed.
He was supposed to be thriving, not look like he hadn’t slept in months.
“Sorry,” he muttered, quickening his steps.
He slid into the chair beside me. One breath of his cologne, one glance at his face, and everything came back—every kiss, every whispered promise, every dream we once shared.
In that flicker of eye contact, I knew distance meant nothing. We would always belong to each other. I would always love him.
I wanted to scream. Kick something. Rail against how absurd, how unfair it all was.
“Hola, peque,” he whispered, dark eyes soft.
“Hi, Ash.”
The officiant droned on. Dad and Sharon beamed at each other, lost in their shiny little bubble. Nothing new.
I stared at my lap, biting my trembling lip. When would this end?
“Peque,” Asher whispered. “Are you okay?”
The word cut deeper than a slap.
I nodded.
He wrapped his palm over mine. Warm. Familiar.
I missed his hands. Missed him. All the goodbyes, the brave faces, the it’s for the betters vanished, leaving only his touch and the weight of everything I felt.
Then the guests erupted in cheers.
He let go, retreating behind a wall. He wasn’t my Ash anymore.
Now he was my stepbrother.
I rose and joined my father. He hugged me for show; so did Sharon. They paraded down the aisle hand in hand, rose petals raining over them.
One by one, guests slipped out toward the reception tent.
Asher and I lingered, in no rush to follow.
I wanted to ask him a hundred things, but the words jammed in my throat.
“Guess we’re family now,” I blurted instead.
He scoffed and rubbed the back of his neck, uneasy, frustrated—or both.
“How’s your injury?” I asked.
“Healed. How’s your school?”
“Good. No more struggles with math.” He probably didn’t care, but I still wanted him to be proud.
“It doesn’t surprise me,” he said. “You’re the smartest girl I know.”
I didn’t tell him about the gap year. Dad had hated it, but I’d insisted—no wedding attendance unless he let me volunteer with Alba. My SAT scores helped. So did the fact that distance would make Sharon’s life easier.
“Do you have a team?” I asked as we stepped outside. The sky cracked open, drizzle cooling my flushed cheeks.
“I’m going to Spain.”
My heart squeezed. I’d been right. He was leaving. This might be the last time I saw him.
Something stirred inside me. Wild. Reckless. Dangerous.
“Wait.” I grabbed his sleeve, stopping him just outside the tent.
Guests trickled past, casting glances our way. Wrong place, wrong time, but I slid my fingers into the hair at the nape of Asher’s neck.
Then I kissed him.
He gasped, lips parting—soft, inviting.
I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath since August. But pressed to him now, kissing him like we were starving, it felt like breathing again. Like living. His tongue brushed mine, and I followed, tasting him the way I had a hundred times before. Only now, there would be no next kiss.
“What the fuck are you doing to me?” he murmured against my mouth, fisting my curls, his lips swollen and wet, an inch from mine.
“Getting my goodbye kiss.”
He shut his eyes, leaning his forehead to mine. When he opened them, they glistened. A tear slid down his cheek, and I brushed it away with my thumb. “Ash, don’t.”
He caught my hand, pressed it hard to his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut like the feel of me burned.
White tulle drifted at the edge of my vision. Sharon’s laughter carried, followed by my father’s baritone.
Asher still clung to my hand. I eased free. “We should head in before they see us.”
He nodded. “Go, peque.”
“And you?”
“In a moment.”
I found our table and sat, still reeling from the kiss. Still breaking under the goodbye I wished I didn’t have to say.
But I couldn’t ask him to stay. He had no team here, and he needed one. He was the one who told me it would never work.
I rubbed the edge of the white tablecloth between my fingers. Silver-rimmed plates. Fresh flowers. Probably Sharon’s choices, maybe a wedding planner’s. Dad might’ve helped. The truth was, I hardly knew. I’d felt like a stranger in his life for years.
Guests settled in. Asher slid into the chair beside me. His cheeks were dry, but his eyes stayed rimmed red.
“You okay?” I asked.
He nodded as Dad and Sharon entered to applause. He didn’t look at them. His gaze stayed fixed on the empty plate before him.
“I’ll need to leave soon,” he whispered as Dad raised a champagne flute. “But first, thank you. For the letter. For the kiss. And”—his throat bobbed—“for just being you. The kindest, smartest, most beautiful girl I know. You should study that degree you picked, peque.”
Tears roughened my voice. “I will.”
“Good. I’m so fucking proud of you. Don’t ever forget that. And I’m sorry for what I’m about to do, but I need it.”
Fear gripped me. “Ash?”
He pushed to his feet. Dad froze mid-sentence, flute suspended. Heads turned. Murmurs rippled through the tent like a current.
“Yes, Asher?” my father said, his tone sharp, warning.
Asher gestured to a server carrying a tray of champagne. The man hesitated, eyes flicking to Dad before stopping beside us. Asher plucked a glass and raised it.
“Thank you. I’d like to make a toast.”
I held my breath. What the hell was he doing?
“To Sharon and Russell.”
The guests echoed, a scattered chorus. A man near the front clapped too hard, cheeks ruddy with drink. Sharon’s smile twitched wider, a fraction too bright, while Dad’s jaw locked tight, his eyes cold as steel on Asher.
“Wait. I’m not done.” Asher let out a jagged laugh. “To Sharon and Russell—who destroyed other people’s happiness to have their own. Ask me how I fucking know.”
Gasps burst across the tent. A woman dropped her fork with a clatter. Sharon shot to her feet, her face the color of my dress. “Asher!”
Dad’s hand closed around her arm, not gentle, his expression thunderous. The mask he’d worn all day cracked, fury burning through. A vein pulsed in his temple as whispers swelled around us, guests leaning in, wide-eyed, as though they’d just been handed front-row seats to a scandal.
“Sorry, Mom.” He left his untouched drink on the table and took a step back. “Go back to celebrating. Hope the second time’s the charm.”
Our gazes tangled for a brief, painful moment, then he stormed out of the tent.
***
Sharon and my father recovered from Asher’s words quickly, basking in congratulations and kissing as if nothing had happened.
Guests followed their lead, but not without sneaking looks my way—curious, wary, some edged with pity.
Nobody asked me to speak, probably afraid I’d deliver a toast like Asher’s.
Better that way. I was a terrible liar, and I despised fakeness too much to pretend.
When the celebration shifted to dancing, I thought about leaving. Dad swayed with Sharon on the floor, happier than I’d ever seen him.
He’d found his true love. Mine had walked out of this tent—and my life—hours ago.
Leaning against the wall, I pulled my phone from my clutch.
A text from Alba glowed on the screen.
Alba: How’s it going?
Me: The happy couple is dancing. I might bail soon. I don’t think my father will notice.
Alba: We’re at the mall in Stetbourg. Text me, and we’ll pick you up.
I thanked her and snagged a fruity red cocktail from a passing tray. The moment I did, a figure stepped in front of me, blocking my view of the floor.
Ethan.
My pulse spiked with fury. How could my father invite him after what he’d done to Asher? My hands shook around the glass.
“Having fun?” he asked. “Your big brother’s dramatic. Guess losing a team broke the champ.”
I clenched my jaw. Jealous, petty asshole.
“Ash has a team,” I said, though I had no idea who he’d race for in Spain. “But I get it. Must sting knowing he’s gone and you’ll still never be as good as him.”
His face twisted in a grimace. I’d hit a nerve, but I wasn’t finished.
I lifted my chin, met his eyes. “Two things, champ. One—you didn’t destroy him. He’ll thrive because he’s Asher Williams. And he’s not my brother. And two…”
I raised my cocktail like a toast. Then tipped it over. Red liquid splashed across his face and beige suit, sharp with alcohol and berries. He sputtered, gasping. “You b—”
“You don’t really want to call me that,” I cut in, ignoring the small crowd that had stopped dancing to watch. “What would your team owner say?”
I set the empty glass on the nearest table and slipped through the guests. Outside the tent, my breath rushed out in a long exhale.
Drenching Ethan had been satisfying. I should’ve done it months ago, but it didn’t matter.
It was never too late to defend him.
To my father, he was a reckless law maker. But today I saw the truth—a hurt, neglected boy who’d never healed.
I prayed one day he would.
And I prayed one day I would, too.