Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
WHAT WAS THAT?
Celeste
Talk about bizarre. There I was, perched on the fountain's edge with Shane—Lexi's gay bestie who only has eyes for his fiancé Marcus.
Both Lexi and Shane went overboard at the open bar, but who could blame them?
The selection was ridiculous—Macallan scotch, Gran Patron tequila, Chopin Vintage Vault vodka, Appleton Estate rum—liquid luxury they'd never afford otherwise. Of course they'd over indulge.
I had my arm around Shane's waist, keeping him upright while some security guy watched us like a hawk.
I figured if I stayed with him, they couldn't toss out the "bride's" friend, even if he was three sheets to the wind.
I was playing babysitter to both him and my sister, who'd wandered off somewhere when Max suddenly appeared.
His eyes were wild, fists balled tight, looking ready to deck poor Shane.
And now I'm completely baffled—why would he act jealous when he's been treating me like I'm invisible at our own damn wedding reception?
Yeah. The moment our "first dance" ended, Max vanished into the sea of designer-clad wealth.
Suddenly I was invisible—the non-Kensington in a room of diamonds, A-Listers and old money.
While my new husband worked the ballroom solo, I retreated to the wall.
These people with their perfect posture and practiced laughs weren't my crowd.
Mingling terrified me. One wrong comment about Cannes or wine, and I'd become tomorrow's whispered joke.
Mr. Five-Languages-and-a-PhD belongs here.
I don't have his framed credentials, but I can fix a broken screenplay in my sleep.
Not that anyone with their Harvard rings would care.
When it became clear Max wasn't even pretending to want me around, I gathered my little island of reality—Tally, Mom, Lexi, Olivia, Shane and me—at a corner table with a wilting centerpiece.
I talked to Joe and Ruth, of course. I have to be polite with them because if Joe is the person paying to stay married to Max.
But after I talk to them, I gravitate to my tribe like a magnet.
Mom's tight smile, lipstick bleeding into the fine lines around her mouth, said everything without a word.
The girls exchanged glances over half-empty champagne flutes; they knew about our arrangement, but even they seemed shocked by Max's Oscar-worthy performance of a groom who'd rather be anywhere else.
The least he could do was fake some basic affection for the crowd of socialites and industry vultures.
But no. Apparently even that was too much to ask from the great Max Kensington, heir to the throne. So...
But then, the absolute audacity of Max to go all green-eyed monster over Shane!
Like I was batting my eyelashes and twirling my hair while giggling at Shane's jokes or something.
As if I'd risk becoming tomorrow's trending hashtag—#NewBrideFlirtsWithStranger—complete with some shaky iPhone footage shot from behind a champagne fountain.
Please. Max either thinks I'm three sheets to the wind (spoiler alert: stone-cold sober because someone had to make sure Tally didn't start doing the electric slide on top of the cake table again) or that I have the IQ of a decorative throw pillow.
Either option makes my blood boil. If he's assuming I'm sloshed enough to make a spectacle of myself, that's insulting enough.
But if he genuinely believes I'd be stupid enough to publicly humiliate both of us at our own wedding reception?
That's next-level offensive. What am I to him, some backwoods bumpkin who just fell off the turnip truck?
And the hypocrisy! He spent the entire reception acting like I was invisible, which technically should have given me carte blanche to chat with whoever I wanted.
It's not like he's invested in this marriage beyond the paperwork, so why the territorial caveman routine?
Gianni drags Max away and I’m ready to bail.
At 2 AM, only the freeloaders remain, draining the last of the top-shelf liquor while the VIPs had vanished in their Bentleys hours ago.
My feet scream in my Louboutins, throbbing with the fading bass.
Sober and exhausted, I crave my Ikea mattress—one of my last nights in my bedroom before Max's beachfront mausoleum becomes home.
I call a seven-seat Uber, and we all leave together.
The ultimate Irish goodbye.