Page 192 of I’m The Worst

“What?”

She sips her martini, eyes flicking toward the Generals on the other side of the room. “For your bachelorette party? I sent you, like, five options.”

“Oh. Yeah. They were great.”

The lie tastes like ash.

I can barely focus on her. My eyes keep drifting back to Wolff. He’s talking to Graves, his back to me, but every line of his body is tense.

“Oh my god, please tell me she picked St. Barts.”

Devin appears at Sienna’s shoulder in a tight black dress, blonde hair pinned up so perfectly it makes me want to throw something. I have to force my face to stay neutral. I didn’t know Sienna invited her, but then again, I haven’t answered half of Sienna’s messages lately, so I guess I forfeited the right to an opinion.

“It’s the front-runner so far,” Sienna says with a grin.

“Or we could just get trashed at a club here and call it a day,” I mutter, barely listening.

“AJ, it’s your wedding.” Devin’s smile is too sweet to be real. “Aren’t you at least a little excited? David was meeting with my dad earlier. It sounds like you two have a very big year ahead of you.”

I finally take a drink, mostly so I don’t have to answer. The champagne does nothing for the dread climbing up my spine.

Turning away from both of them, I head for the bar, setting the half-finished glass down before grabbing a bottle of vodka from behind the counter. I twist off the cap and take a long pull straight from it.

The burn is sharp enough to make my eyes water, but not enough to quiet the fear knotting in my chest. I scan the room again—he’s already halfway across it, slipping through the large glass doors that lead out to the garden.

I don’t let myself think.

I follow.

The night air is cool against my flushed skin, cutting through the warm haze of alcohol. I round the corner of the tall hedge wall and stop a few feet behind him. He’s standing with his back to me, one hand shoved in his pocket.

I clear my throat.

He doesn’t turn around. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

Silence. Only the faint music from the ballroom bleeds into the garden.

“I know your real name,” I say before I lose my nerve. “Dylan.”

His entire body goes rigid before he slowly turns. Eyes locking on mine, the cold emptiness in them sends ice through my veins.

Fuck.

This wasn’t how I wanted to do this. Not with his face going blank like that. I should’ve waited. Should’ve thought this through for five more goddamn seconds before blurting out the one name guaranteed to make him look at me like I just put a knife in his throat.

I take a step back automatically. “Miranda contacted me and⁠—”

“You spoke to Miranda?” he bites out.

“Yes. I met her, and she told me everything. About what happened to you when you were little. The house, the men, how they⁠—”

“Shut your mouth.”

Shit.

This is bad. Every instinct in my body is screaming at me to shut up, to stop turning this into a bigger mess than it already is, but it’s too late now. I’m already standing in front of him half-drunk, half-panicked, trying to shove a conversation about the worst thing that ever happened to him into the middle of a fucking Sovereign party.