Southern weddings have a particular kind of charm—one part fairy tale, two parts local gossip—and this one is no exception.
I linger near the bar, nursing a drink that isn’t nearly strong enough while I fidget with a monogrammed cocktail napkin. The event is a “phone free space” which means the wedding planner forced every single guest to drop their devices into a wicker basket before the ceremony, which means I have no way to distract myself from my thoughts.
“I amso sorryabout Kendall and Alex.” Beside me, Mackenzie’s petite frame sways as she clutches her champagne flute. Her wedding dress, pristine despite itsearlier suffering and the fact that she spent the entire cocktail hour twirling barefoot through the grass, shimmers under the lights.
I shrug. “They’re fine.” Or, at least they will be after I’ve had enough to drink.
She hiccups, swaying closer, and makes a pitiful groaning sound before dropping her forehead against my shoulder.
“My mom is in Bunco with their moms,” she mutters. “I had to make them bridesmaids, or I’d never hear the end of it. Like—never.” She leans back, eyes bleary. “I’d have died an old woman, and they’d still be saying,remember how Mackenzie didn’t make Kendall and Alex bridesmaids? What a selfish little bitch.”
I laugh into my glass. “We have to avoid that at all costs.”
“Yep,” she agrees, popping the p before taking a very unladylike gulp of champagne.
Her gaze sweeps the room, her grin going lazy. She hiccups again and turns back to me.
“God,” she mutters under her breath. “Alder looksso good.”
I go very, very still.
She gasps suddenly, hand flying to her mouth, the triangle of freckles beneath her left eye crinkling with a wince. “Wait! Am I still allowed to say that? I mean, I’m a married woman now.” She extends her left hand and closes one eye to focus on the massive diamond. “Is this illegal?” she slurs.
“I think you’re safe.”
Mackenzie nods, satisfied. Her gaze sweeps the reception tent again, catching on Alder once more. Sheexhales, her champagne flute tipping precariously in her hand.
“Not gonna lie,” she says, voice just loose enough with alcohol to be brutally honest, “He is such an asshole. Not husband material. Not even boyfriend material. If he hadn’t grown up literally next door to Jason, there’s no way they’d be best friends.BuuuutI get why you keep going back.” She waves her hand in his direction. “He’s rich as sin and looks, well…like that.”
I follow her gaze, even though I shouldn’t. I know exactly what I’ll see.
Alder, standing just beyond the crowd, effortlessly tall, perfectly composed, his presence suffocating even from across the tent.
I look away fast.
“I mean, Gem, let’s be real.” She leans in, voice low and conspiratorial, the kind of tone that precedes bad decisions and questionable life choices. “You’re doing yourSex and the Citything in New York, and that’s great. But Alder… He could buy you a penthouse up there tomorrow, no problem.”
She’s not wrong. And the thought makes me want to puke. “I don’t want him to buy me a penthouse.”
Mackenzie presses her lips together and blows. “Not saying you should do it, but you wouldn’t be the first woman to sell her soul and that punani for money. Easy peasy, lemon”—she hiccups, giggling—“squeezy.”
My throat burns as I down the rest of my drink and motion to the bartender for another.
Mackenzie has no idea how much easier it would be. How much I’ve already considered it. If I gave in, I wouldn’t be weeks away from running out of moneyand packing my bags to move back in with my parents. I wouldn’t have to drown in shame when everyone realizes I didn’t make it.
It would be so damn simple to let Alder take care of it. To let him fix everything. To let him buy me security, stability. An escape from the reality I don’t want to face.
And I might even enjoy it.
I know without a doubt I’d enjoy the sex. That part of our relationship was never a problem.
I take a sip of my fresh gin and tonic, blessedly stronger this time, and glance over my shoulder at Alder.
Maybe my soul isn’t such a high price to pay. Maybe it’s not mine to bargain with at all. Maybe he already owns a piece of it.
“Mackenzie!” The wedding planner rushes up, clipboard in one hand, earpiece securely in place, moving with the focused urgency of a woman who has seen some shit. “It’s time for the cake pull.”
Mackenzie squeals in delight, clutching my arm. “Oh my God, Gemma,the cake pull!”
