The bridal shower is a pastel-colored nightmare of petit fours and polite laughter, and I float through it like a ghost haunting someone else's life.

My mind is a broken record: Do not cause a fiasco. Keep your promise. Smile. The words have a metallic taste, like I’ve bitten my own tongue. I hold a flute of lukewarm champagne I don’t drink, my fingers leaving damp prints on the glass.

“You must be Imogen.”

The voice is bright, English, and utterly pleasant. I turn, and there she is. Eleanor. She’s prettier up close, with a rosy complexion and kind, if somewhat vacant, blue eyes. She’s wearing a tasteful lavender dress. She looks like someone who’d remember your birthday and send a card.

“I am,” I say, and my smile is so wide it hurts my cheeks. “You’re Eleanor. We heard the… news.”

“Bit of a surprise all around, I think!” she laughs, a light, tinkling sound. “Your sister’s shower is just lovely. And I hear we’re practically going to be roomies! Mummy—Sebastian’s mother, Elizabeth—said our suite adjoins yours. Shared courtyard and everything. How fun!”

My heart doesn’t drop. It simply evaporates. The courtyard. Our courtyard. Where he pressed me against the wall. Where he whispered into my skin.

“How fun,” I parrot, my voice dripping with a syrupy sweetness that is entirely alien to me. “We’ll have to have a drink out there.”

From across the room, Amelia catches my eye. Her brows are knitted. She’s watching me like I’m a suspiciously well-behaved zoo animal. She knows. She knows I am never this friendly, this docile. I give her a tiny, serene wave. Her frown deepens.

“I should go mingle,” Eleanor says, touching my arm briefly. “But I’m so looking forward to getting to know you better. Sebastian’s told me so little.”

“He’s a private person,” I say, and the smile stays glued on. “A man of mystery.”

She drifts away, and I let the smile collapse. My face feels stiff, frozen. I am an actor in the worst play ever written, and my motivation is a desperate, clawing need to not ruin my sister’s life.

Later, in the villa, as we get ready for the bachelorette party, I stare into my closet. The promise was to not cause drama. It said nothing about my wardrobe.

I pull it out: a dress I bought in a fit of madness in Los Angeles. It’s black, slip-thin, and completely sheer except for strategic embroidered swirls of lace. It’s backless, sleeveless, and clings to every curve. Underneath, I put on a matching set: a black lace bra that does little to conceal, and a thong that feels like a suggestion. I look at myself in the mirror. I look like trouble. I look like a revenge fantasy. Good.

“Imogen.” Amelia is at my door, already dressed in elegant cream trousers and a silk shell. Her eyes scan me, head to toe. “What are you wearing?”

“It’s a dress.”

“It’s a confession.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Just… try not to get arrested. Or photographed. Please.”

“Your faith is touching.”

She leaves, and I finish my makeup, smudging my eyeliner, painting my lips a deep, bruised red. When I look in the mirror again, I don’t see a heartbroken girl. I see a weapon.

The club is all throbbing bass and sticky floors and neon lights that paint everyone in artificial hues. I lose myself in it. I dance at the center of Amelia’s friends, a whirl of black silk and flying hair. The music is so loud it replaces thought. My body moves, sweat gathers at the small of my back, and for whole minutes at a time, I forget. I forget his blue eyes, his hands, his voice saying you are my freedom. I forget the look of pure horror on his face when Eleanor walked in. I am just a pulse, a rhythm, a body in motion.

“You’re an amazing dancer!”

Eleanor appears beside me, her blonde hair swaying. She’s changed into a chic jumpsuit, moving with a cheerful, uncoordinated bounce. She grabs my hands, laughing. “Come on, show me how!”

And just like that, the forgetting ends. My skin crawls where she touches me. This is the woman he was supposed to marry. This is the woman whose existence he hid. And she is nice. She is genuinely, infuriatingly nice. I force a laugh and dance with her, our bodies close in the crowd. It feels like a violation. Every smile she gives me is a tiny knife.

“I’m knackered!” she shouts over the music after a few songs. “I need a water. You’re a lifesaver!”

She drifts toward the bar, and I stand still, the crowd moving around me like I’m a rock in a stream. The spell is broken. The noise is just noise now. I feel the ache return, deep and hollow in my chest.

I head to the bar myself. “Vodka cranberry. Double. Keep them coming.”

The bartender nods. I down the first one in two burning gulps. The second goes slower. By the third, the edges of the room start to soften.

That’s when the atmosphere shifts. A roar goes up from the entrance. A group of men in suits, laughing and shoving each other, pours into the club. The bachelor party. And at the forefront, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, is Arthur, with a bright green “Groom” sash already crooked. And beside him, his face a mask of strained politeness, is Sebastian.

Our eyes lock across the swirling chaos. His gaze hits me like a physical blow, traveling from my face down the sheer length of my dress, taking in every revealing inch. His expression doesn’t change, but his jaw tightens. A muscle jumps in his temple. He looks… ravaged.

The parties merge into one loud, messy celebration. Someone shouts about shots. Amelia rolls her eyes but accepts one from Arthur, pulling him into a kiss. I turn my back, order another drink.

I feel him before I see him. A presence at my shoulder. The clean scent of him cuts through the sweat and perfume. I don’t turn.

“Imogen.” His voice is low, meant only for me.

“Professor.” I take a sip. My hand is steady. A miracle.

“That dress…”

“Is none of your business.” I finally look at him. His eyes are dark in the club light, haunted. “Did you resolve your situation?”

“I’m trying. She’s… clinging. My mother has her convinced this is a reconciliation tour.”

“How lovely for you both.”

“Don’t.” The word is ripped from him. “Don’t do that. Not with me.”

“Do what? Be happy for your reunion?” I finish my drink. The vodka is a warm, numb blanket. “I’m following the rules. No drama. See?” I gesture to my serene, drunken smile. “I’m a picture of mental health.”

Before he can answer, Eleanor materializes, threading her arm through his. “There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere. Arthur wants to do a silly toast. Come on!”

She doesn’t even glance at me. She tugs him away, and he goes, but his eyes stay on mine until the crowd swallows them.

That’s the last time I talk to him. For the rest of the night, I have a mission. I dance with Arthur’s friends. I laugh too loudly at stupid jokes. I take the shots that appear in my hand. The world becomes a pleasant, blurry watercolor. Eleanor is a constant fixture at Sebastian’s side, her hand on his arm, his shoulder, once brushing lint from his lapel. He doesn’t push her away. He just stands there, a beautiful, tortured statue, and his gaze follows me like a condemned man watching the sun set.

At some point, I stumble to a plush booth in a dim corner. The room tilts gently. My head feels heavy, my thoughts slow and syrupy. I am miserably, gloriously drunk. The pain is still there, but it’s underwater now, muted and distant.

I watch them from across the room. Eleanor is saying something, smiling up at him. He nods, says something back. He looks exhausted. Then, she stumbles slightly on her heels. He catches her elbow, steadying her. She leans into him, laughing. And then, because the universe is a cruel and hackneyed writer, she reaches up and kisses his cheek.

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t pull away. He just closes his eyes for a second, a flicker of profound weariness.

That’s the image that finally breaks through the vodka haze. That silent acceptance. I look down at my hands, at the empty glass clutched in my fingers. The music swells, laughter bubbles around me, and I sit in the middle of it all, completely and utterly alone.

I don’t see the end of the night. I must close my eyes, because the next thing I know, there’s a gentle shaking on my shoulder. The lights are brighter, the music is gone, and the club is half-empty.

“Imogen. Come on, time to go.” It’s Amelia. Her voice is tired but not unkind.

I blink, my mouth dry. “Where’s… everyone?”

“Gone. Taxis.” She helps me stand. The world wobbles. As she guides me toward the door, I see them, framed in the exit. Sebastian has one arm around a sleepy-looking Eleanor, supporting her. He’s getting her into a cab. He doesn’t look back.

Amelia bundles me into our own car. I lay my head against the cool window as the resort lights streak by. I don’t cry. I just feel the vast, empty weight of the vodka and the night and the sight of him walking away with her, and I let the numbness pull me under.