Marriage
A socially accepted hostage situation where two people sign a lifelong contract to tolerate each other's worst habits, pretend they don't want to commit homicide over breakfast, and—if they're particularly unfortunate—produce smaller, noisier versions of themselves.
"Marriage is a beautiful institution," Mrs. Harroway said earlier during her toast.
So is an asylum.
I swear to God, if one more person asks me when I'm getting married, I'm going to set this place on fire.
I swirl the champagne in my glass, watching the bubbles rise and burst like all my good intentions. I had promised myself I wouldn't drink too much tonight. One glass, maybe two—just enough to survive this insufferable event with dignity intact.
Yet, here I am, sipping my fifth.
The wedding of Miss Genevieve Harroway, my foster father's beloved daughter, is nothing short of a royal spectacle—gold chandeliers, silk-draped tables, and enough caviar to feed the poor for a week. The entire Harroway estate is bathed in candlelight and laughter, a monument to a happy union.
Or, in my case, a slow descent into madness.
Across the room, Genevieve is radiant in her ivory gown, basking in the adoration of her guests like a queen holding court. She is perfection—curls swept elegantly, laughter light and practiced, a vision of everything proper.
And then there's me.
Standing in a dim corner, wearing the dullest, itchiest purple bridesmaid dress ever sewn by human hands. My flower bouquet, still clenched in my fist, has become less of an accessory and more of a makeshift weapon to shoo away the leering men who think a wedding is the perfect place to corner an unmarried woman.
My head is pounding—partially from the champagne, but mostly because my curls have been pinned so tightly that my scalp feels like it's been yanked back a century. My feet are worse. The shoes Genevieve insisted I wear, for the sake of elegance, have already cut into my skin. Every step is agony.
I am one breath away from killing someone.
I take another sip. God, I need something stronger.
"Enjoying yourself?"
The voice is all sugar and arsenic. Genevieve. Of course.
I glance up to see her standing there, bouquet in hand, eyes glinting with barely contained amusement. She is a bride, yes, but also a victor. And I? I am the unfortunate bridesmaid trapped in her spectacle.
Not that I hate it particularly.
"Immensely," I say, offering her my most insincere smile. "Especially the part where I get to witness your transformation into a domesticated housewife."
Her perfectly groomed brows lift. "And yet here you are, dear sister. Alone." She sighs dramatically. "I worry for you, truly."
I pretend to fix the delicate silver headdress in her hair. Let's just hope that this one won't be as abusive as your ex-fiancé, I whisper silkily.
The moment the words leave my lips, her face turns red—boiling, furious, like a tomato left too long in the sun.
I smile. Delightful.
She stumbles away, no doubt to report my behavior to her dear mother, and I lift my glass to the air in mock victory. That was far more satisfying than the drink itself.
Unfortunately, my moment of peace does not last long.
"Dawn, my dear, come here for a second!"
Mrs. Harroway, a woman who has despised me from the moment I stepped foot in her house, gestures for me with that too-sweet, too-fake smile she wears when she wants something.
Here we go.
"Haha… This is her," she announces loudly to a group of middle-aged women, all drowning in too much perfume and judgmental curiosity. "I was just talking about her a minute ago! Say hello to the ladies, Dawn. And do smile, dear."
I force my lips into a slow, exaggerated grin, the kind that makes children cry.
She looks vaguely unsettled, then covers it with another bright smile. "Now, could you do me a favor?"
Before I can refuse, she snaps her fingers at a passing waiter, who immediately hands me a silver tray filled with champagne glasses.
Wait. What?
The next minute, I am standing there like an idiot, holding a tray, as if I have been demoted to the role of servant.
And then, as if to complete my humiliation, a man walks by and—without hesitation—plucks a glass from the tray I'm holding.
I blink at him.
What. The. Hell.
Mrs. Harroway looks immensely pleased with herself, already twirling her way onto the dance floor, leaving me to stand there, holding alcohol for the rich like some kind of goddamn waitress.
She's dancing because Mr. Harroway isn't here. I haven't seen him all evening. I wonder where he is.
I need to get out of here.
Grabbing the tray, I slip onto the balcony and place it on the nearest table, making a mental note to drink all of them later or break all of them.
Then, without hesitation, I lock the balcony doors.
The second the lock clicks into place, I kick off my cursed shoes, sending them flying across the stone floor. The bouquet follows, landing with a dramatic flop near the railing.
I sigh, stretching my aching toes. "Bitches would be…"
I trail off, reaching under the folds of my dress to pull out the cigarette case strapped to my thigh.
I flip it open. The cigars are untouched—perfect little sticks of salvation. I bite down on one, ready for relief.
But my lighter—the damned, useless thing—refuses to work.
I swear under my breath, clicking it again and again, but the flame will not spark.
Then—without warning—
A flame appears next to me.
I jump out of my skin, nearly blaring in shock.
Heart hammering, I turn.
There, standing just inches away from me, is a man—tall, sharp-featured, dressed in a neatly pressed suit. He holds a silver lighter between his fingers, the small flame flickering dangerously close to my face.
His expression is unreadable, but there is amusement in his dark eyes.
"Need a light?" he asks.