10. Consequences #3
But the way he looks at me—speaks to my soul. Pleading for me to let him in.
“Are you gonna flirt with me all night,” he challenges, smirk curling his lip, “or do something about it?”
I shouldn’t. I promised Philippa. We need to behave this weekend. But the way he goads me sparks something wicked, something reckless.
I want his mouth, his heat, his roughness. I want it all.
“Fuck it.”
I tug him down, rising on my toes, and crash into his lips.
He hums in satisfaction as he holds me up.
His tongue slides into my mouth and I let him in.
He tastes of whiskey and pure heat, his kiss melting every ache, piecing my battered heart together.
It’s the type of kiss they talk about in songs—the moment of unstoppable bliss, setting something into motion, melting away every doubt.
This is how our first kiss should have been.
Broderick’s hands claw at my body, and I know it’s taking every ounce of control for him not to rip my clothes off here and now and make good on our agreement.
Fuck being good. I need this.
A throat clears.
We jolt apart. He sets me down quickly, turning to adjust the evidence straining his pants. I smooth my dress, fingers combing through my frazzled hair.
“Ma’am,” Luca says evenly. “My apologies—your family requests a word.”
Ugh.
“Yeah,” I manage, walking toward the patio doors. “I’ll see you inside, Broderick.”
Another rule broken.
Luca won’t say anything—NDAs make sure of that—but the reality hits hard. We got caught. We need to be careful, surrounded by family and friends we can’t make the mistake of being careless and risking this arrangement between us before we’ve even had the chance to properly enjoy it.
I follow Luca inside and after enduring a round of relatives eager to “catch up”—which really means gawking at Mortimer’s black sheep—I finally slink to the bar, in desperate need of a drink.
The taste of him still lingers. The kiss thrums through me like a secret I can’t put down.
I force a smile when Andrew drifts over.
“Hey, Little Sis,” he says, pulling me into a friendly hug. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he slurs.
“How much have you had to drink?” I narrow my eyes, catching the scent of whiskey on his breath.
He chuckles just as Philippa appears at his side.
“Too much,” she tuts—sweet, playful. Almost flirty.
They look at each other like horned-up teenagers, ready to rip each other’s clothes off. At the rate they’re going, I’ll be an aunt by next year.
“Or maybe not nearly enough.” Riley laughs, handing Philippa a fresh drink. “My room literally makes me feel like I’m about to be ravished by Mr. Darcy.”
“I’m more of a Heathcliff girl myself,” I say.
“Heathcliff, huh?” His voice slides in, smooth as silk. “The broody, jealous kind?”
Broderick.
I sip my drink, cutting him a glance. His eyes sparkle—because I know exactly how jealous he can get. I remember the Hamptons. The way he sulked at Philippa and Andrew’s Bachelorette party.
“Explains why you were so into that Alex guy. Tortured actor and all—your taste in men sucks.”
My head snaps towards Andrew.
Ouch.
His words punch all the air out of my lungs.
Broderick’s expression darkens. Fury flashes across his face, aimed at his best friend. He throws an arm around me instinctively, a shield. But I recoil, stepping back.
Riley looks like she’s about to slap him.
“Andrew,” Philippa snaps, hurt cutting through her voice. “Why would you say that?”
She looks genuinely upset.
“What? I was kidding,” Andrew scoffs.
“Dickhead,” Riley mutters, shaking her head.
“Excuse me,” I manage barely, already stepping away, biting back the sting.
Broderick’s hand grazes mine, but he doesn’t stop me. I dash toward the powder room, heels clicking against the floor—another set of footsteps close behind.
I bite the inside of my cheek, trying not to make a scene, trying not to ruin Philippa’s night. Best behavior, I promised.
But the tears are already clawing at the corners of my eyes, humiliation coursing through me like poison. My wounded heart cracking open with each broken beat over the first man I ever let in—who threw me away like I was nothing.
Because I am nothing.
The shame is overwhelming. The mistake I carry in choosing Alex haunts me like a ghost. The guilt of the feelings I still can’t quite shake.
And I’ve buried it, pushed it down, pretended I’ve moved on. But one careless jab, and all of it comes rushing back—raw and merciless.
I shove the door open, chest heaving as I try to swallow my sobs. In and out, in and out—pacing like a madwoman.
I was used to Andrew’s playful teasing, but how he brought it up tonight—like it was sport.
For weeks, I’d managed to avoid the topic of Alex, he only lived quietly in the back of my mind, in dreams and thoughts that haunted me at night before sleep eventually claimed me. But hearing him mock my choices—because I dared to follow my heart for the first time in my life.
“Elena.” Philippa slips in after me, her voice soft and urgent. “I’m so sorry—I’m—”
“If I was into Alex,” I hiss, spinning on her, “then what the fuck are you doing marrying someone like him? He’s a fucking asshole.”
Her face drops. Humiliation flickers across her delicate features.
“You tell me to be on my best behavior—but he can talk to me like that?”
My voice is harsh. She doesn’t deserve it.
“It’s not just the comment about Alex. It’s how you treat me—like I’m this emotional time bomb you’re always anticipating will detonate. I’m a human, Pip. I matter. My feelings fucking matter too.”
“I know,” she whispers, barely audible. “I told him not to bring it up. I’m so…” Her throat works as she swallows, tears spilling down her cheeks.
“So sorry,” she whimpers, shoulders shaking.
Fuck.
No, no, no.
The guilt hits me like ice water. I must be the worst maid of honor in history. Who makes the bride cry during her own pre-wedding celebrations?
“I didn’t mean that,” I blurt, my voice laced with shame. “Not really.”
She sinks onto the velvet ottoman, still sobbing.
“No, Elena—you’re right,” she says through tears. “I ask you to behave, but I never stand up for you. Not to Andrew, not to Dad.”
My breath catches.
“I’m so afraid to rock the boat. Sometimes I feel like I just…exist. Like a doll on a shelf.”
Tears prick behind my eyes.
“I’m afraid if I say or do the wrong thing…he’ll leave me, everyone always leaves me,” she whispers.
She’s not talking about Andrew anymore, she’s talking about Mom.
When Mom left, she left her, too. Left her to navigate Mortimer’s world alone, with Carole as a substitute and no one to anchor her.
“Sometimes, I want to scream,” she confesses.
And for the first time, I see her armor crack. She looks small. Just as broken as me.
“Then scream, Pip. Just let go.”
I grab the tissue box from the counter, pull one free, and kneel in front of her, offering it.
“I…I can’t,” she murmurs, dabbing at her nose.
“Pip,” I say gently, “anyone who leaves you for being who you really are doesn’t even deserve to breathe air.”
She lets out a brittle laugh. “Guess that’s why she died.”
I blink, thrown. That was a side of her I hadn’t seen.
“Damn. That’s cold.” Though I know she’s not serious.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I get it. I have my shit with Father…you have yours with Mom.”
She nods, eyes still glistening.
“I’m sorry Pip.”
“I miss her…especially now, she should be here,” she whispers her shoulders slumping.
“I know, I wish she was too.” I pull her into a hug, and she collapses into me, sobbing in my arms.
I hold her tight, her cries muffled against my shoulder, both of us shaking for entirely different reasons.
I want to cry, but I can’t, I need to be strong for her. It’s not about me right now. It’s about my sister. Without thinking, I stand.
“Come on,” I say, grabbing her hand and tugging.
She looks up, dazed. “What?”
“Come on,” I repeat, more urgent now. “You said you wanted to scream.”
“Elena, I didn’t mean—”
“Nope. Too late. You said it. Let’s go.”
She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind—and maybe I have—but I’m not backing down. I yank the tissue from her hand, tossing it in the bin, and tow her out of the powder room.
“Where are we going?” she hisses, heels clicking as I drag her down the hallway.
“To scream. Duh.”
“Elena—”
“Shh.” I glance over my shoulder. “Come on, let’s detonate this emotional bomb.”
We run through the garden hand in hand—barefoot, dressed in silk like a pair of deranged forest nymphs.
The crisp night air hits like a balm—sharp, alive. The soft earth grounds us, cool and damp beneath our feet, as we tear past the stone steps. Ravenswood’s back gardens stretch wide and manicured, clusters of trees swaying gently, the breeze rustling the leaves like whispered secrets.
“Come on.” I tug her across the grass toward the edge of the lawn, where the lantern light fades and the darkness softens.
“Elena, this is ridiculous,” she whispers.
“No,” I say, breathless. “Dressing up and fake-smiling through someone else’s bullshit is ridiculous. This?” I turn to her. “This is necessary.”
I drop her hand and step back.
“Scream.”
She just stares, her wide hazel eyes making me look like I’ve lost my damn mind.
“Go on.”
“I can’t,” she says. “Someone will hear.”
“So what if they do? Let them.”
“Elena—”
“To hell with perfect! I’ve seen you let loose,” I snap. “You’re allowed to be a goddamn person. Let go!”
She swallows hard. Her shoulders tremble. Her lips part like she wants to argue—but nothing comes out.