Yvaine stiffened, but it was too late, he was already striding over.
Cassian stopped right in front of her and gave a shallow nod. No words. Just the bare minimum to make it look civil.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I snapped. ‘You’re blocking our way.’
His smile twitched, then vanished completely. ‘Yvaine—’
‘And I are just leaving. Come on, Yvaine.’
We cut through the crowd towards a side corridor.
At the end of it, there was a narrow balcony tucked behind a set of white lattice doors.
The music sounded distant from here.
I asked, low, ‘Still stuck on him?’
Yvaine let out a thin breath. ‘It’s only been a few weeks. If I could drop him that fast, I’d be exactly like him.’
She used to tell me she was over him.
At least now she was being honest.
‘He’s swapped out two already,’ she said flatly. ‘I don’t know why I thought I ever mattered.’
She wasn’t looking for advice.
‘It’s fine. I’ll feel like shit for a bit. Then I won’t. All I need is a bit of time.’
Then someone from her family called her name.
‘Want me to come with?’ I offered.
‘No, I’ll be fine.’ Yvaine gave me an apologetic smile and walked off, her back held too straight.
I headed for the balcony on my own.
I rounded the corner—and stopped.
Someone was already there.
The light caught the edge of his sleeve, the collar of his coat.
‘Damn it,’ I muttered, then turned around reluctantly.
Rhys stood by the railing.
He looked paler than usual, his hair messier.
There was a dark patch of stubble along his jaw.
His suit jacket hung crooked, like he hadn’t noticed it was creased.
‘Came here to see me?’ he asked.
‘Don’t flatter yourself. I was just walking around.’
I turned and started walking off.
‘I’m filing for divorce.’
‘From Catherine,’ he added, as if I could mistake his meaning.
He took a step forward. ‘I’m ending it with Catherine. If I do... we—’
He choked on the rest.
I could see it coming, the stupid question he didn’t have the guts to finish.
‘You getting a divorce has nothing to do with me.’
He stepped closer, agitated now. ‘If I end it, then we still—’
‘You still don’t have a chance with her.’
Ashton rounded the corner, walking fast.
His gaze locked on Rhys like he was deciding where to hit first.
Rhys backed up half a step.
‘Flirting with my wife in public?’ Ashton stopped right in front of him. ‘Did you not see the ring? Or are you selectively blind?’
‘I...’ Rhys licked his dry lips.
Ashton turned to me, pushed a strand of hair off my temple and tucked it behind my ear.
He took my hand. ‘It’s starting. Let’s go.’
He placed a hand at the small of my back and guided me inside.
Behind us, I could feel Rhys watching.
Ashton leaned in. ‘Was he bothering you?’
His lips brushed the edge of my ear.
‘No. I spoke maybe all of two sentences, that’s it.’
By the time we reached the ballroom doors, the sound wrapped around us—cutlery clinking, a string quartet scraping through a breathy jazz cover, bursts of laughter bouncing off marble.
The crowd shifted when they noticed us—or rather, Ashton.
Conversations slowed.
People leaned across tables and cupped their hands over champagne flutes.
Ashton walked beside me, his steps matching mine exactly.
He angled slightly towards me, close enough that I could hear his soft breathing.
We took our seats at the top table.
I kept my chin up and my spine straight, sensing eyes on us from every angle.
People stared, then looked away as if caught doing something shameful.
Yvaine returned, slightly breathless, and dropped into the seat next to mine.
‘Ceremony’s starting in two minutes,’ she whispered.
At one point, Yvaine sniffled and wiped her cheek with a cocktail napkin.
Her mascara bled under both eyes, but she smiled through it.
Then came the bouquet toss.
The band switched to some cloying pop remix.
A bunch of women scrambled up onto the dais—Rachel Stone’s bridesmaids elbowed their way to the front, squealing like they were at a shoe sale.
‘Not gonna join in?’ Ashton whispered to me.
‘I’m already married, aren’t I?’ I flashed him my ring.
He leaned back, satisfied.
By the time people noticed Alexis had even joined in, the bouquet was already in her hand.
She stepped down from the platform like she hadn’t just sprinted in heels and muscled through five bridesmaids.
People turned in their seats.
Someone let out a sharp little laugh and got shushed.
Alexis returned to her table like nothing was off, bouquet resting lightly in her grip.
Cassian leaned back as she held it out to him.
She placed the bouquet on the table between them, adjusted a petal, then picked up her drink without saying a word.
That was enough to set the room off again.
Heads tilted together.
People murmured behind cloth napkins.
‘Did she just propose to him?’
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‘Isn’t it supposed to be the guy who proposes?’
‘But he didn’t take it.’
‘They’re probably already engaged. This is just for show.’
‘Bet they announce it next week.’
The music picked up again.
A waiter passed by with chocolate mousse in shot glasses.
Someone clinked a spoon against a flute.
She was laughing at something a woman in emerald said, her mouth glossy from wine, no trace of annoyance or tension anywhere.
Her posture was relaxed.
‘Are those flowers always this much?’ Ashton asked, looking down at the centrepiece between us.
It was an enormous, absurd explosion of peonies and garden roses, mostly white, with the odd dusty pink one mixed in.
‘Depends who’s paying. And whether the bride’s mother’s in therapy or not.’
‘Mm.’ He paused, eyes on the bouquet. ‘Would you want something ? For yours.’