Amelia
“Let’s toast again, sister-in-law.” Lizzy nudges me with her elbow, and I sway slightly as I turn to her.
“Again? Alright then,” I shrug, and she orders another round of tequila.
My head feels a little foggy, but I’m in a good mood, and Lizzy and I are having fun now that all the stuffy guests, including my brother, have left.
It’s already one o’clock in the morning, and only close friends and acquaintances of Lizzy and Nicolas remain. I know most of them, but I’ve noticed some seem to believe the recent press releases about me.
Luckily, everyone had to hand over their phones, cameras, anything that can record, film, or take pictures. So I can actually celebrate undisturbed and without fear of my brother, the press, or any lies. And that’s exactly what I’m doing.
Nicolas keeps a close eye on me, hardly taking his eyes off me, which makes the butterflies in my stomach flutter wildly. I like that he’s watching me. It feels good. Safe.
The bartender sets the shots down in front of us, and we clink glasses, lick the salt, and down it in one go. The lemon afterward is disgusting, but whatever.
“Huuuhh, that hits hard. Oh, I love this song, let’s go dance,” my best friend chirps and pulls me along.
My tiara, which she had taken off the veil sometime earlier, is now hanging crooked on my head, and my elegant bun is slowly but surely falling apart. But I’ve never cared less.
I stagger behind Lizzy and notice too late that someone is in my path. I dodge just enough to barely brush against the person, but an outraged shout tells me something has happened.
When I stop Lizzy and turn around, I see it’s Sarah, whose glass is lying on the floor. And her black dress is wet.
Oops.
I cover my mouth and have to giggle, which Sarah and her friends obviously don’t find amusing.
“Watch where you’re going! Look at the mess you made, you clumsy oaf,” she snaps, and Lizzy and I roll our eyes simultaneously.
“Don’t be such a drama queen, Sarah. You could’ve moved out of the way. Lia didn’t do it on purpose,” Lizzy intervenes, but I see the dangerous glint in Sarah’s eyes. She won’t let it go. She’s looking for trouble.
All evening she’s been trying to get close to Nicolas and shooting me nasty looks, so my grace period is over. Too bad I’ve been drinking and my inhibitions have shrunk considerably, which is why I turn fully around and glare at her with narrowed eyes.
“I’m sorry, Sarah, I didn’t see you in time. It wasn’t on purpose,” I apologize nicely, but she just snorts scornfully.
“Believe what you want. Isn’t it enough that you stole Nic away, even though he doesn’t want you? That you now have his ring on your finger means nothing,” she hisses, and Lizzy groans in response.
“Oh man, Sarah, just drop it. Just because my brother fucked you a few times doesn’t mean he’s madly in love with you,” Lizzy shoots back sharply, and the brief, jealous sting inside me fuels my recklessness.
“Well, now he’s fucking me. Get used to it,” I shrug, wanting to walk away, because this conversation is pointless and annoying.
This is my wedding party, damn it, and I want to have fun tonight.
“You disgusting slut. First you kill Phil, and now you want to snatch the next heir to the throne? Whore. That’s what they call you, I think.” Her eyes sparkle provocatively and a bit crazily, but the alcohol clouds my mind and I respond.
“I’m not the whore. As far as I know, you spread your legs for everyone, not just Nicolas. At least I only sleep with one at a time.” I glare at her disdainfully, and the dark, bitter side of me wants out. I want to hurt her, to wound her. I’m so tired of always being put down.
Fueled by anger, hatred, and alcohol, my words become a sharp weapon, and they clearly hit their target, because moments later my cheek explodes and my head snaps hard to the side as Sarah’s hand slams into me. The sting is sharp, intense, and painfully familiar.
My subconscious reacts and wants to protect itself, but the punch, the humiliation, all the pent-up feelings about my situation mixed with the alcohol are too much. I lunge at her, grab her by the hair, and we fall to the ground.
Enough. I’ve had enough.
My fist hits her nose, it cracks horribly, and a sharp pain shoots up my wrist, but I don’t care. I just don’t care.
Red. I just see red.
I barely notice what else happens. It’s like I’m in a trance.
I don’t want this anymore. Enough.
I hate her.
Everything blurs into a red ball, and I fight back. I hit, bite, scratch. Only when a strong arm wraps around my waist and pulls me away do I slowly come back to myself. But I’m angry, so angry.
“Let me go. Let me the fuck go.” I try to break free, but Nicolas holds me firmly and gets me out of the hall.
No.
My skin feels too tight, like I’m going to explode. There’s so much anger and hatred, so much pain and grief, and it’s all about to consume me if I don’t let it out.
Nicolas throws me over his shoulder and storms into our apartment, slamming the door shut behind us and locking it. He locks it, damn it, he actually locks it.
“Now let me down, you idiot, and open the door again. I have to…” Whoa, the room spins as he suddenly sets me down gently. My legs tremble, and adrenaline surges through my veins like a drug.
I want to kill her.
I want them to be quiet.
I want peace.
“Easy now, Goldilocks, I think you’ve thrown enough punches. And judging by the state you’re in, we should probably take care of you first,” he says calmly, giving me a crooked grin, which only infuriates me more.
“Don’t tell me what to do. She… she called me a whore. She said I… that I killed Philipp. She… aargghhhhh!” I let out a frustrated scream and grimace in pain. “Ow, that hurts,” I whine, clutching my cheek and my eye. I flinch, yep, still hurts.
Nicolas raises an eyebrow at me, but when I start to whimper, his expression softens. He puts his hands on my shoulders, gently turns me around, and nudges me toward the bathroom.
“Come on, tiger, let’s clean you up and take care of your eye, then we’ll figure out the rest.” This time I don’t argue. I obediently shuffle toward the bathroom, then freeze when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
“Oh shit, I look like a mix of Chucky and Harley Quinn,” I blurt out in horror, wincing again. I’ve got a fat bruise under my eye and a swollen cheek. My curls are sticking out wildly, half-falling out of what used to be a classy updo, but worst of all is my dress. It’s torn and stained with blood.
Through the mirror, I catch Nicolas’s eye. He’s barely suppressing a grin.
“Yup, you’d be perfect for a horror movie, Goldilocks. Go shower, I’ll get you an ice pack for your eye. Go on.” He plants a kiss on the top of my head, just like that, and that small gesture makes my heart melt. So simple, but so full of meaning.
I swallow hard, nodding, trying not to show how much it touches me. I’m not used to this. It feels so good, and I soak it up like a sponge.
“Can you unzip the dress for me? I… well, I don’t want to destroy it completely.
” I look down at what’s left of my once dreamy wedding gown with resignation.
“Your mother’s going to kill me,” I murmur remorsefully.
He chuckles softly as he gently brushes my curls aside.
That rough, low sound vibrates through me, sending tingles over my skin and covering me in goosebumps.
Oh God.
His touch skims softly along my spine, and I shiver as he unzips the dress. It slips to the floor, and I’m standing in my underwear in front of him.
“Hmmm, I like the garter. I’ll have to take a closer look at that later,” he murmurs at my shoulder, pressing a kiss to it before disappearing.
Heaven help me.
My knees go weak, and my tipsy self can barely breathe.
Shower. I need to shower, I remind myself, and get completely undressed.
Even the garter, though I’ll definitely put it back on afterward.
Curiosity gets the better of me; I want to know if he’ll follow through.
The desire to see it happen outweighs my prideful urge to resist, because deep down, I want this.
Nicolas gives me a feeling I can’t explain, it’s intoxicating and terrifying all at once. He makes me feel, he hurts me, he exposes me, but he also makes me soar, challenges me, pushes me out of my comfort zone.
Deep in thought, I step into the shower and wash away the blood and grime. As the hot water hits my aching muscles, I moan out loud.
God, that feels good.
Tomorrow, I’ll regret this night, but right now, with enough alcohol in my system, I don’t care.
When I’m done, I slip into my bathrobe, smiling to myself as I slide the garter back on. My stomach flutters with anticipation, just at the thought of Nicolas touching me again. The desire pulses deep within me.
Heaven help me, I’m definitely drunk.
Still unsteady, I leave the bathroom and stop dead in my tracks because my husband— oh my God, I’m actually married—is shirtless, standing in our dressing room in just low-slung sweatpants, searching for a shirt.
My mouth goes dry, and I swallow hard. That ache deepens, and I clench my fists. He is…
Oh, damn it, I want him. Now.
But my eye and cheek throb badly, and it’s turning into a full-blown headache.
“There are two painkillers and the ice pack on the nightstand. I’ll be with you in a second,” he calls, distracted, not even noticing I’m staring at him.
Good.
I hurry over to our bed and immediately wince, since sudden movements aren’t really working for me right now, I’m feeling a bit unsteady.
I smile when I see the water, pills, and ice pack. It’s honestly sweet, the way he’s taking care of me.
“You’re supposed to swallow the pills, not just smile at them, Goldilocks,” his voice murmurs suddenly in my ear, and he pulls me back against him, my body leaning into his bare chest.
I flinch in surprise, I hadn’t noticed him come up behind me, but I sigh and relax against him.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, closing my eyes briefly. My head is really starting to pound, and I can’t bring myself to say out loud what I did at my own wedding.
“Sorry for what?” he asks, genuinely confused. He nudges me toward the nightstand, reaching past me to grab the pills. But before I can explain what I’m apologizing for, he distracts me with orders, and I forget what I was going to say.
“Open your mouth,” he commands, sliding the pills between my lips.
“Drink.” I roll my eyes at his bossy tone, but do as I’m told.
“Now lie down and ice that eye.”
Shaking my head, I crawl onto the bed. My robe slips, and when I turn toward Nicolas, I catch the darkening of his gaze. There’s hunger there, intense and undeniable, and it makes me swallow hard.
“I think I really do need to take a closer look at that garter, Goldilocks. What do you say?” His voice is thick with desire, sending a delicious shiver down my spine, pushing away all the pain and exhaustion.
I want to live. I want to feel alive.
So I open my legs, slide the soft fabric of my robe aside, and give him a full view of the garter—and of me.