Chapter Three
Three
The wedding reception is in full swing. The tent, pitched near a sparkling lake on the perfectly manicured lawns of the Charleston Island Country Club, glows with golden lantern light.
Tables are draped in soft ivory linens, centerpieces burst with blooms, and the air is fragrant with roses, gardenias, and sweet buttercream.
Southern weddings have a particular kind of charm—one part fairy tale, two parts local gossip—and this one is no exception.
I linger near the bar, nursing a drink that isn’t nearly strong enough while I fidget with a monogrammed cocktail napkin.
The event is a “phone free space” which means the wedding planner forced every single guest to drop their devices into a wicker basket before the ceremony, which means I have no way to distract myself from my thoughts.
“I am so sorry about Kendall and Alex.” Beside me, Mackenzie’s petite frame sways as she clutches her champagne flute. Her wedding dress, pristine despite its earlier suffering and the fact that she spent the entire cocktail hour twirling barefoot through the grass, shimmers under the lights.
I shrug. “They’re fine.” Or, at least they will be after I’ve had enough to drink.
She hiccups, swaying closer, and makes a pitiful groaning sound before dropping her forehead against my shoulder.
“My mom is in Bunco with their moms,” she mutters.
“I had to make them bridesmaids, or I’d never hear the end of it.
Like—never.” She leans back, eyes bleary.
“I’d have died an old woman, and they’d still be saying, remember how Mackenzie didn’t make Kendall and Alex bridesmaids? What a selfish little bitch.”
I laugh into my glass. “We have to avoid that at all costs.”
“Yep,” she agrees, popping the p before taking a very unladylike gulp of champagne.
Her gaze sweeps the room, her grin going lazy. She hiccups again and turns back to me.
“God,” she mutters under her breath. “Alder looks so good.”
I go very, very still.
She gasps suddenly, hand flying to her mouth, the triangle of freckles beneath her left eye crinkling with a wince. “Wait! Am I still allowed to say that? I mean, I’m a married woman now.” She extends her left hand and closes one eye to focus on the massive diamond. “Is this illegal?” she slurs.
“I think you’re safe.”
Mackenzie nods, satisfied. Her gaze sweeps the reception tent again, catching on Alder once more. She exhales, her champagne flute tipping precariously in her hand.
“Not gonna lie,” she says, voice just loose enough with alcohol to be brutally honest, “He is such an asshole. Not husband material. Not even boyfriend material. If he hadn’t grown up literally next door to Jason, there’s no way they’d be best friends.
Buuuut I get why you keep going back.” She waves her hand in his direction.
“He’s rich as sin and looks, well…like that. ”
I follow her gaze, even though I shouldn’t. I know exactly what I’ll see.
Alder, standing just beyond the crowd, effortlessly tall, perfectly composed, his presence suffocating even from across the tent.
I look away fast.
“I mean, Gem, let’s be real.” She leans in, voice low and conspiratorial, the kind of tone that precedes bad decisions and questionable life choices. “You’re doing your Sex and the City thing in New York, and that’s great. But Alder… He could buy you a penthouse up there tomorrow, no problem.”
She’s not wrong. And the thought makes me want to puke. “I don’t want him to buy me a penthouse.”
Mackenzie presses her lips together and blows. “Not saying you should do it, but you wouldn’t be the first woman to sell her soul and that punani for money. Easy peasy, lemon”—she hiccups, giggling—“squeezy.”
My throat burns as I down the rest of my drink and motion to the bartender for another.
Mackenzie has no idea how much easier it would be. How much I’ve already considered it. If I gave in, I wouldn’t be weeks away from running out of money and packing my bags to move back in with my parents. I wouldn’t have to drown in shame when everyone realizes I didn’t make it.
It would be so damn simple to let Alder take care of it. To let him fix everything. To let him buy me security, stability. An escape from the reality I don’t want to face.
And I might even enjoy it.
I know without a doubt I’d enjoy the sex. That part of our relationship was never a problem.
I take a sip of my fresh gin and tonic, blessedly stronger this time, and glance over my shoulder at Alder.
Maybe my soul isn’t such a high price to pay. Maybe it’s not mine to bargain with at all. Maybe he already owns a piece of it.
“Mackenzie!” The wedding planner rushes up, clipboard in one hand, earpiece securely in place, moving with the focused urgency of a woman who has seen some shit. “It’s time for the cake pull.”
Mackenzie squeals in delight, clutching my arm. “Oh my God, Gemma, the cake pull!”
I try to protest, but she’s already yanking me forward.
The cake sits at the center of the reception hall, a towering masterpiece of sugar and gold leaf. At its base, ribbons thread through the layers, each tied to a hidden charm. A fortune. A glimpse at what’s to come.
“Go on.” Mackenzie nudges me toward the cake and the other bridesmaids. “You have to. It’s tradition.”
I groan and playfully bump her hip with mine.
“Love youuuuu!” She shouts as the wedding planner whisks her to the front of the gathering crowd of guests.
Alex clears her throat and glances at Mackenzie, her voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “Remember last fall at Sophie’s wedding? I got a money charm. And then, boom! Three new clients.”
“Yeah, well, I hope this pull actually works.” Kendall, Thing 2 to Alex’s Thing 1, snorts, her fingers twirling around her ribbon. “I could use some serious love luck right now.”
Love.
The word burns through my thoughts along with visions of Alder. I shoot back the rest of my gin and tonic, wincing as it goes down rough.
Mackenzie drunkenly raises her arms like a race starter about to set us off. “On the count of three, you’ll pull together!”
I grab a ribbon. The moment I do, a shock zips through me. It’s static electricity but with a strange undertone—a tingling sensation that travels up my arm and settles in my chest.
“What the hell?” I mutter, shaking off the buzzing sting and flexing my fingers. The other bridesmaids don’t seem to notice, too caught up in their own excitement, playfully elbowing each other, ready to see what their futures hold.
“Three, two, one—pull!”
A chorus of cheers rings out from the gathered crowd as we tug on our ribbons.
The others glide out of the cake effortlessly, glinting at the end of their satin strings.
Bridesmaids squeal and joyous gasps pop from the gathered attendees as their attention shifts to Mackenzie, her dark curls bouncing as she wiggles in the middle of a group hug.
But my ribbon stays stuck.
I pull again, harder this time. The satin catches, hung up somewhere deep inside the cake. I tug again. Nothing. Finally, I use both hands and yank on the string like my life depends on it.
The ribbon jerks free, and I stumble backward. A blob of frosting flies through the air, and something heavier than a charm lands with a wet slap directly onto my overflowing cleavage.
I glance down, my pulse whooshing in my ears, embarrassment rushing hot through my veins.
It’s not a charm.
It’s a card.
The frosting-covered card clings to my skin, smearing a sticky splotch of buttercream across the pale-yellow satin of my dress.
The din around me swells, laughter and giddy shrieks as the other bridesmaids compare their charms—tiny sparkling beacons of hope for their future. A tiny baby carriage for motherhood. A ring for an upcoming proposal. A four-leaf clover for good fortune.
I peel the card from my chest, my fingers tacky with buttercream.
This is wrong.
I catch Mackenzie’s gaze across the cake table. She claps her hands, eyes still bright with alcohol and post-pull euphoria. As I step toward her and she sees the mess on my dress, her expression shifts. Her nose wrinkles.
“What’s that?” she asks, tilting her head.
At the same time, I blurt, “What’s this?”
Her eyes flick to the card in my hand. I hold it up, swallowing hard.
“It was in the cake,” I say. “It’s my charm.”
Mackenzie blinks, trying to focus through the fog of champagne. She grabs my wrist and leans in to inspect the card.
“Gem…” she murmurs, shaking her head. “I—I’ve never seen this before.”
Ice slides down my spine.
“What do you mean?”
She frowns and throws up her hands.
“All the charms…” She gestures vaguely toward the others. “We got them from Pandora. They don’t sell cards. Well, gift cards…”
I stare down at the card, my pulse hammering.
Mackenzie sticks her finger in the frosting on my boobs and puts it in her mouth. “Is this vanilla?”
She’s saying something about cake tasting and the bakery screwing up, but I don’t hear her anymore.
Over her shoulder, past the glittering centerpieces and flickering lanterns, Alder cuts through the crowd, moving toward me like a shark.
I clutch the paper tighter, my fingers smearing buttercream across the edges.
I need to get out of here before he reaches me.
I snag a flute of champagne from a server as I slip away, weaving between the tables and guests without so much as a backward glance. The tent flaps rustle as I push my way outside and rush to the clubhouse where I duck into the bathroom.
It’s blessedly cool as the door closes behind me, and the noise of the reception is long gone, leaving me alone with the quiet hum of the air conditioning and the soft whisper of my ballet flats against the polished marble floor.
I take a sip of champagne and set the card on the edge of the sink before glancing at my reflection.