I’m on autopilot, smiling and acting the part of the happy fiancée, but on the inside, I’m moments away from falling apart. Rory doesn’t seem to notice and leads me to the front of the room where his mom and dad stand.
There is an elaborate white cake, feet away, and I suddenly realize, the next cake I’ll see of this size will probably be my wedding cake. Sweat gathers along my brow as I wet my suddenly parched lips.
Our guests wait for us to speak, but Cormac takes the lead. “Thank you for comin’ ’ere tonight to celebrate the engagement of our only son and his beautiful wife-to-be, Camilla.”
The crowd erupts into applause while I try to smile even though I know Cormac is lying.
“Aileen and I are proud of you, son. Y’ve never backed down, and shown true strength in whatever life decisions y’ve made.”
Rory nods in acknowledgment as Cormac raises his glass in salute.
“Yer a good man with a big heart. Yer willin’ to overlook the past.”
I shuffle uncomfortably because I suddenly feel like this speech is directed at me.
“Ye give people a second chance. And ya forgive. Yer kindness is somethin’ ya got from yer ma.”
The crowd chuckles while I gesture for the waiter to bring me another glass of champagne. This entire speech is Cormac’s way of telling me that his son is perfect while I’m the whore who fucked her brother.
“So, let’s raise our glasses and celebrate the happy couple. Cheers!”
The room clinks their glasses, drinking to Rory’s and my engagement as I throw back my drink, suddenly light-headed from all the booze I’ve had in such a short amount of time.
Rory seems oblivious to the fact as he takes the microphone from his father so he can thank our guests. I stand off to the side, staring into the crowd, which suddenly looks double in size.
“Ach, that’s a hard act to follow,” Rory teases, looking at his father, who smirks.
I’m suddenly angered he would choose the words that he did because his passive-aggressive approach is not necessary. I know how he feels about me. He doesn’t need to embarrass me in front of our guests—guests who have no right to judge me when Cormac isn’t exactly an angel.
He once was best friends and in partnership with Connor Kelly, the biggest drug dealer and bad guy in all of Belfast. He has no right to make me feel bad for my past.
No right.
When Rory turns over his shoulder to look at me mid-speech, I realize I’ve spoken those words aloud. I try to act normal, but when my gaze falls on Darcy whispering something into Punky’s ear, my ruse falters.
I quickly down another glass of champagne, hoping to suppress the need to throw up.
“To my beautiful fiancée, Camilla, I love you. I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with ya.” Rory raises his glass while the masses follow and salute our happy union, all unaware of the conflict raging within me.
It’s suddenly too much, and I’m going to be sick.
Before Rory has a chance to kiss me, I quickly excuse myself and make a beeline for the door, hand over my mouth to stop my vomit. Guests move out of my way, gossiping no doubt about my sudden departure. But let them talk. I don’t care anymore.
The moment I find the nearest bathroom, I yank open the door and heave into the toilet. Gripping the toilet bowl, I dry retch, hoping to expel this emptiness I feel. But I only feel worse.
Something is seriously wrong with me.
Unrolling some toilet paper, I wipe my mouth and toss it into the toilet. Coming to a shaky stand, I flush it and make my way over to the basin. Peering into the mirror, I blanch when I see my pallid complexion. I look like shit.
My red ball gown would put any Disney Princess to shame, but I suddenly feel like a fraud. The thick jeweled bracelets confirm this as they conceal what I did. It’s all too much, and I wonder if that is because I’m trying to make up for something that isn’t there. I thought if I looked like a happy fiancée, I would surely feel like one.
But I don’t.
All I feel is numb.
Turning on the faucet, I gulp down some water to clear my head, but the static isn’t because I drank too much—no. I’m drunk on something, someone else, and I don’t know what to do about it.
As I pop a mint from the conveniently placed glass bowl on the counter, there is a knock on the door. Before I can tell whoever it is that I’ll be out in a minute, it opens, and who I see has me gripping the marble counter in fear I’ll fall down.
Punky closes and locks the door. He doesn’t move. He leans against it, watching me closely.
My heart begins to beat faster, and I’m suddenly animated in ways I never thought possible again.
“Some speech,” he finally says, understanding why I left so suddenly to puke up my guts. “Don’t let Cormac get to ya. He was always a self-entitled bastard.”
I nod, embarrassed at how rapidly my breaths leave me.
Punky pushes off the door while I gulp, still clutching onto the counter for support.
“What’s the matter, Babydoll?” he asks, his voice smooth, calm. “This should be a happy day.”
“I-I am happy,” I counter, but my falter proves me to be a liar.
He arches a smug brow, continuing his saunter toward me. “Happy days then.”
When he gets within feet, he stops, watching me with those predatory eyes. I need to leave.
When I move to make a mad dash for the door, his hand snaps out, and he grips my forearm. The touch sets me alight, and I bite my cheek to suppress my moan. “Let me go.”
Punky smirks, tonguing over his bottom lip. I’m instantly hit with the memory of how that bottom lip looked pierced. I whimper when I remember how it felt.
“So, Rory? I didn’t realize ya felt that way about him.”
“Neither did I,” I respond sharply, trying to yank my arm free. “But he was there for me when I needed him. When you refused to see me.”
“That was awful convenient,” he says, smirking. “I just find it…weird. I don’t see ya havin’ that much in common.”
He’s right.
We disagree on the smallest things, but opposites attract, and I love that he challenges me. That he isn’t a yes-man.
“He’s your best friend. You can’t find it that weird,” I argue, standing tall. “You know what a good person he is.”
He reaches out while I forget to breathe as he runs a single finger along the seam of my mouth. “Aye, he’s the best. I’m glad y’ve found yer happiness with him. When’s the weddin’?”
“I-I don’t know,” I reply from around his finger. “We haven’t set a date.”
“And yer gettin’ married here? Yer goin’ to live in Belfast then?”
I nod, and my knees buckle when his signature fragrance hits me. He looks like my Punky, only older, harder maybe. I suppose being in jail for ten years does that to a person.
His blue eyes can still hold me prisoner, as does his entire being. He’s built as the tux hugs his taut frame, allowing me to imagine his defined muscles beneath. His hair is longer, the dirty blond strands falling whichever way they flick naturally to give him a sexy bedhead look.
Even though he wears a tuxedo, I don’t mistake him for a gentleman because he is anything but. And God strike me down, I like it. He still towers over me, even in my heels. I remember his weight pressed against me. I remember how I knew he could hurt me, but he never did.