If I'm being honest with myself, I'd also brought him because I was angry with Nate. Wanted him to see me with someone else. Wanted him to feel jealous, to hurt the way I'd been hurting for two years of silence.
It was childish. Cruel, even.
I hate that I did that to Liam—used him as a weapon in a war he didn't sign up for. I told him the truth later, after the wedding, sitting in the airport before our flight back to London.Apologized for making him part of something that had nothing to do with him.
Liam being Liam, he just smiled that easy smile of his and said he understood. That he'd suspected as much when he saw the way Nate and I looked at each other. That he forgave me, but maybe I should forgive myself too.
I'm still working on that part.
It was the first time I'd spoken to Nate since he left for rehab two years prior to the wedding. Since that night in my bedroom at the lake house when he told me he was leaving to better himself. Right before we made love for what would be the last time.
After that, he stopped replying to my texts. Ignored my calls. I heard bits and pieces—he got out, started a studio in Eden, was signing artists.
But no one like Camilla or Ollie or Mia would bring him up to me. It became unspoken territory.
A wound we all agreed not to touch.
The waiter approaches, leather-bound wine list in hand, grip slightly unsteady.
"Shall we start with something to drink?"
"Whatever is your finest," Wes says, voice smooth, absolute, leaving no room for debate.
The waiter clears his throat, voice careful, deferential. "May I suggest the Château Margaux 2015? It's exceptional, one of our best, and?—"
Wes shakes his head, impatience curling at the edges of his expression. "No. I want the absolute finest. Nothing less."
A pause. The waiter swallows. "In that case, the Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, Romanée-Conti Grand Cru 2015. Truly one of the finest vintages we have."
Wes doesn't even glance at him. "Perfect," he says, flicking his hand dismissively. "Bring it."
No please, no thank you.
The waiter hesitates, voice almost inaudible, as if saying it aloud might break something fragile.
"It's eighteen thousand dollars, sir."
Eighteen thousand fucking dollars!?
My fingers curl around the edge of the table. My pulse hammers in my ears.
"Eighteen thousand? Wes, that's insane." The words escape before I can catch them.
Wes finally turns toward me. Eyes sharp. Calculating. Catching the flicker of incredulity on my face.
There's a warning in his gaze. A reminder that this is not a conversation but a demonstration.
"Just enjoy it, Nora," he says. Smooth. Deliberate. "Stop complaining about me spoiling you."
Eighteen thousand dollars for fermented grapes, and he expects me to smile.
I take a breath. Sip water. Let the coil of anger tighten further in my stomach. His hand brushes mine—not gentle, not affectionate. Possessive. Marking. Claiming.
I glance down at our fingers barely touching, and the urge to pull away flickers and dies before it can surface. I'm trapped between survival and outrage. Between fury and the dutiful smile I force onto my lips.
The waiter returns, balancing the Romanée-Conti like it's a crown. The cork pops with the kind of ceremony I expect for a royal wedding.
Wes leans back, chest puffed, as if he's not just ordering wine but declaring dominion over the universe.
