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Laughter bubbles up from my lips as I revel in the warmth of these three men who have become my everything. We exchange looks filled with promises and private jokes, a silent language developed over stolen moments and shared dreams.
But before I can sink even deeper into the comfort of our connection, the soft music that fills the room comes to an abrupt stop. Heads turn, conversations falter, and there's a sudden shift in the atmosphere.
Brody stumbles into the room, every bit the picture of drunken arrogance. My stomach tightens, a visceral reaction to the intrusion of this unwelcome ghost from my past. His eyes are glazed over, but when they land on me, there's a disturbing clarity within them–a focused malice that sets my nerves on edge.
"Look at this happy bunch," he slurs, voice dripping with disdain. A hush falls over the crowd as Brody makes a beeline for the small stage that has a couple large screens and microphones, which until moments ago had been displaying sweet snapshots of Annabelle and Ethan.
"Isn't this supposed to be a celebration of love?" Brody sneers, reaching out to fumble with the equipment.
I can feel Wilder, Wyatt, and Emrys tense beside me, their protective instincts kicking in.
"This can’t be good," I mutter under my breath, feeling their agreement more than seeing it, our bond a silent strength that we'll need to draw on now more than ever.
As Brody's fingers finally hit the right button, and the screen flickers ominously, I know we're on the brink of something. Whether it's disaster or just another hurdle, only time will tell. But one thing's for sure–I won't let Brody ruin this night for Annabelle and Ethan. Not if I have anything to say about it.
The projector's hum is the only sound that fills the sudden silence as Brody, with a triumphant smirk plastered on his drunken face, flips the switch. The images of Annabelle and Ethan's tender moments dissolve into a single, blown-up photo of me in bed with Emrys, Wilder, and Wyatt. I'm nestled between them, an innocent snapshot of our unconventional but real affection. The room gasps collectively, a cacophony of shock bouncing off the walls as the adjacent screen flickers, revealing scanned documents stamped with the Book-A-Boyfriend logo.
"Here's the truth about your darling Kat," Brody bellows, his voice echoing through the now icy ballroom. "She's nothing but a whore playing house with her three prostitutes!"
His words are venom, spitting out each syllable like it's poison he's been dying to unleash. The murmur amongst the guests swells into an uproar of whispers and judgments. Cameras begin to flash from the press and I know they’re probably recording too.
By midnight, this moment will be filtered out into the news cycle, probably twisted and rewritten to be even more scandalous than it really is. Everyone is going to see this by morning.
"Whore?" Wilder's jaw clenches, the muscle ticking in a silent promise of the fury he's holding back. Wyatt's hand tightens around his wine glass, knuckles whitening, until it shatters completely. When Emrys steps forward, a violent glint sharpening his already menacing gaze, I put out a hand.
"Guys," I say, my voice steady despite the chaos Brody's trying to orchestrate. "Don't give him the satisfaction." I place a hand on each of their arms, grounding them, my touch a reminder of the unity we've built against all odds.
"Kat-" Wilder starts, but I cut him off with a look.
"Trust me," I tell them firmly, my gaze locked onto theirs. "I've got this."
They exchange a glance, a silent conversation passing between them before they nod. There's an unspoken agreement in the way they let me take the lead, understanding that this moment isn't just about defending our love–it's about reclaiming the narrative Brody's so desperate to twist.
"Let her handle it," I hear Wyatt whisper to the others, and I don't need to see their nods of assent to know they're with me.
With each of Brody's venomous words slicing through the air, my world tilts on its axis. But as he stands there, smirking like a cat that got the cream, something within me snaps into razor-sharp focus. I let out a breath and start to make my way toward him, my heels clicking a steady rhythm on the polished floor. I can feel Emrys, Wyatt, and Wilder's gazes burning holes into my back, but I need to do this alone.
My heart slams against my ribs, yet my face is an unreadable mask. I close in on Brody, and I see it–the flicker of doubt in his eyes as I draw nearer without uttering a single word. He's expecting a breakdown, tears, or a screaming match. What he doesn't anticipate is the calm before the storm–that I'm the storm.
"Kathy," he sneers. "I always knew you were a dirty who-"
The distance between us disappears. My fist clenches instinctively, tight as a drum. It's as though I'm watching myself from outside my body, a spectator to the inevitable. And then, with all the force of every pent-up frustration and insult he's ever hurled my way, my right hook connects with his jaw.
The sound cracks through the tension in the room like a whip. Brody's head snaps to the side, his shock echoing the collective gasp that ripples through our audience. Even in my own ears, the impact rings with a note of finality, a period at the end of a long, ugly sentence.
Let's be clear–I'm not usually one for violence. I pride myself on sharp comebacks and smarter exits, but some moments call for more than wit. They require action. And as Brody staggers back and falls to his ass, his hand flying to his reddening cheek, I know that punch was for every woman who's ever been reduced to less than she is by a man with too much entitlement and not enough sense.
I stand my ground, shoulders squared and chin high, the murmurs around me crescendoing into a bewildered chorus. But when I glance over to where Annabelle and Ethan are standing–the bride and groom forgotten in this fiasco–I catch something unexpected. A flash of triumph in their eyes, a silent cheer for the girl who's just shattered expectations with her bare knuckles.
And there, amidst the chaos, I find a strange serenity. Because no matter what comes next, I've already won.
The mic lies on the floor, a casualty of the war Brody started. My hand, still tingling from the contact with his jaw, reaches down and plucks it up as if it’s nothing more than a dropped napkin. The room shifts into an eerie silence, every eye fixed on me, waiting for my next move.
"Sorry about that," I say, injecting a bit of levity into the tension-soaked air. "I don't usually do encores."
I take a steadying breath, the kind you draw in when you're about to dive off a cliff—or in my case, expose your heart to a room full of wedding guests and three men who've become so much more than just hired dates. Wilder stands poised like he's ready to wrestle any demon or dragon for me, his adrenaline junkie heart probably pumping at the thought of the new adventure we're embarking on. Wyatt's intense gaze anchors me, reminding me of the strength that comes from surviving battles of the heart. And Emrys, with a protective glint in his eyes, waits for my cue, ready to unleash the beast if I order it.
"Look," I say, voice steady as a heartbeat. "You've all seen something tonight that's private, and it's been twisted into a spectacle."
