Chapter 27 Naomi
What I did was stupid, reckless, and honestly…I’d do it again. I would let him have any part of me he wants—I would let him take my sanity.
Girl, no. Don’t ever think some shit like that again.
Pushing away that epic disaster of a thought, I smooth down my dress and force my hands to stop trembling. I pull the flask from my clutch and take a swig of Wray and Nephew, hoping it’ll burn the anxiety out of my chest. I slip the cold steel back into place before stepping out into the hallway.
Somehow, I knew I would need it. The overproof liquor might send me to my maker before I die of idiocy—and honestly, that might be the best possible outcome.
I mean, I have no idea who he is, he could have killed me, and the sad part is: It felt so good that I would have let him.
There’s this knot tightening in my stomach—unfulfilled need mixing with something else, something dangerous.
Trust? No, that can’t be right. Right?
Trying to focus on my reflection in the hall’s mirror, I make sure I look perfect, unruffled to say the least. But the thoughts of him won’t stop… his touch, it’s burned into my skin just the way he wanted it to be. I bite the inside of my cheek, pain forcing the thoughts to dissipate.
Giving myself one last glance, I’m a picture of composure again—until Aisha barrels into me.
“Shit.” The muttered curse falls from our lips simultaneously; we grab hold of one another to keep from falling onto our asses.
“Girl, what the fuck? Where have you been?” she says, her eyes narrowing.
“I—um…I just needed a moment to gather myself,” I say, shifting my boobs back into place.
She raises a brow. “And are you gathered now?” Her tone is laced with sarcasm as she looks me up and down.
“Yes.” I divert my eyes from the knowing look she is giving me.
A door slams, a couple of feet away, and we both jump, turning our attention to the disruption. Christian, in all his glory. His gaze finds me, and that crooked, self-satisfied smile spreads across his face like wildfire.
“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Aisha whispers in my ear.
Ignoring Aisha, I smile back. But inside, I’m all static. My skin still remembers other hands.. I steady my breath and pray he can’t see through me, though I don’t think he can even see straight right now.
And I look at him—really look at him—shirt untucked, collar slightly askew, hair rumpled like he was in a rush or wrestled with temptation. His belt is crooked, not quite cinched right.
Am I the only one who’s sinned tonight?
The thought festers fast, sour in my gut. I keep my smile where it is, but it feels like a mask that’s starting to slip, just enough to let the cracks show.
Maybe we both sinned.
Maybe that’s the only thing still holding us together.
“Come here, Butterfly!” His voice echoes down the hall.
I don’t know why, but I hate it when he calls me that. Looking at him now, another man’s touch ingrained in my memories, all I feel is absolute euphoria—I don’t even care enough to be disgusted or mad.
He starts to stumble down the hall, clutching the walls, almost shattering a gold-trimmed mirror a couple of feet away.
“Come on, let’s go,” I say, tugging Aisha down the long hallway behind me. From the looks of him, I can tell how this night is going to go. It’s going to be a fucking shit show.
“Shouldn’t we wait for him?” Aisha asks, making an effort to slow me down.
“No.” I cut her a stern glance, tugging her down the stairs after me. “He’ll catch up.”
“Naomi! Hey, wait up.” Christian’s words slur, and my stomach churns violently.
The last thing I need is his sloppy, liquor-sodden ass all over me.
This is not how I imagined this night would be.
First, a borderline psychotic prenup, then wanting to be laid up with a psycho in a mask, and now this, a groom who can’t even tie his own shoes.
I look over my shoulder to see Christian’s tongue halfway out of his mouth as he loops the bunny-eared laces through each other. I am not sure what the fuck I ever saw in him. I’ve been lying to myself the whole time, pretending that this is enough, but how do I make it stop? The answer is—I can’t.
At least, I don’t think so. There is some kind of agreement between our fathers, contracts signed in the days after we got engaged—I heard Max and Tre in a heated discussion with daddy one night, and I couldn’t help but listen in.
From what I’ve gathered, it’s something to do with a merger that only takes effect upon our nuptials. My father has worked so hard for everything he has. I can't let him down.
Aisha eyes me with that look—curious, worried, but thankfully not suspicious enough. “You alright?” she asks.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I give her a smile that feels too tight, too fake, holding onto her arm as if it’s my lifeline.
The hum of the party grows louder with each step.
An overly done-up room packed with family, friends, and the upper echelon, all with their fake smiles and sharp eyes.
I know my father brushes shoulders with them in his line of work, but I’ve never been keen on going to galas and the sort.
My family was perfectly fine with me curling up with a book instead of coming with them; in fact, they encouraged it.
I scan the crowd briefly, spotting my parents and my brothers at one end of the room. Momma’s dazzling in her dress, laughing with a glass of champagne. Daddy, surrounded by people he knows.
Aisha gets dragged off by someone—maid of honor duties, I suppose—leaving me standing awkwardly at the foot of the stairs.
My eyes meet Christian’s at the top, and I quickly turn away before he can gather his bearings and come down.
As I head toward my family, forcing the brave face I’ve perfected for so long, Max is the first to pull me into a hug, squeezing me like he hasn’t seen me in years. “You look stunning, sis,” he says, voice full of warmth.
“Thanks, Max.” I pull back, giving him the same tight smile I’ve been wearing all night.
Tris and Tré are close behind, offering their congratulations, their good-natured ribbing, but I can barely focus on what they are saying.
Momma pulls up a picture of a bouquet on her phone that she thought would go well with a dress I mentioned a couple of days ago on one of our mother-daughter, hours-long video calls, but even that’s a blur, too.
I try to center my mind amid the hailstorm of guests who stop to give their well-wishes or gawk at the ring. But my mind’s spinning, replaying the past hour, wondering how the hell I’m going to survive the rest of the night.
An arm snakes around my shoulder, and I lift my gaze to see my father.
“I’m so happy you made it.” I smile up at him. Resting my head against his chest, I breathe him in.
Even as a little girl, his hug always calmed my nervous system—his cologne, something spiced, but for the life of me, I can’t remember the name.
“Did you think I would miss my only daughter’s engagement party?” Daddy’s baritone chuckle reverberates through my body, covering me with a sense of peace, tranquility, and safety.
“Of course not, Papa Bear.”
“Oh man.” He sighs, sounding a bit choked up. I tilt my head to look up at him again, tears gather in the corner of his eye. “I can’t believe my fleur is getting married.”
“Well, believe it, Alaric!” Christian joins us, suddenly, slinging an arm around my waist. His hand is too tight on my hip, possessive, damn near pulling me out of my father’s grip—but at least he’s not a disheveled mess.
I don’t know who sorted him out, but I’m thankful—even if his speech is still slurred and his eyes are glassy.
“This pretty lady’s gonna to be my wife,” he grins like he’s already signed my ownership.
I tense under his touch, but I smile anyway.
I have to. I have to keep playing the part of the dutiful fiancée because nothing can go wrong tonight.
Not with my family here. Not with Mommy and Daddy flying in just for this—what is supposed to be one of the most important nights of my life.
In a room filled with powerful people, connections deeper than any tree roots can reach—I can’t risk setting anything off.
His fingers graze lower, and I fight the urge to flinch. The skin under his touch burns with disgust, but I stay still.
I wonder if they can see it—that my laughter’s hollow, that my spine is stiff with dread. I wonder if they notice the distance in my eyes, the little flickers of retreat that no amount of foundation can hide.
Do they see the truth?
That I don’t want to be here.
That I don’t want this.
But I wear the dress. I sip the champagne. I play the part.
Because failure, in this world of powerful men and soul-crushing legacy, isn’t just frowned upon—it can destroy you. And I won’t be the one to destroy my family.
Whatever I’m doing is working for Christian—he’s oblivious, leaning down to kiss the side of my neck, “You ready for the speech, babe?” he slurs, and my stomach twists.
And I can’t help but notice the shift in my father’s countenance, and of course, Daddy has never been one to hold his tongue, even as my mother tries to quiet him.
“Have some respect, boy.” My father’s voice booms in a way that puts the fear of God into anyone within earshot, even my grown ass brothers look like they are having flashbacks of childhood scoldings.
“How do you expect to be the head of a household when you can’t even hold your liquor?
You’re sloppy, you’re careless, and you’re out of turn. ”
Christian doesn’t say a word. For once, he’s smart enough not to. His jaw tightens, and I feel the ghost of his grip on my arm—still possessive, still inappropriate—but now I’m sure he’s stone-cold sober.
“Momma,” I murmur, barely audible, but she’s already moving. Her hand slides up my father’s arm like she’s pouring water over fire. “Ric, please,” she says, her voice calm and smooth, unshaken. “It’s a party. They’re just celebrating.”