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I ended up working with Stafford, which is how she met her now fiancée, Bella.

Bella is a little taller than Vivian, with butter blonde hair and ice blue eyes. She’s a well-versed healer for Remnant criminals in the Underground. Remnant by association. It’s how we met and became friends. When I introduced her to my sister, she was immediately smitten.

Their relationship has been full and beautiful. Exactly what Vivian deserves. Bella courted Vivian with flowers and dates until Vivian finally caved. They’re so in love that it would make me sick if I didn’t adore them so fucking much.

I can’t help but be a little bitter. Vivian is going off and getting a fresh start with her own family. My self-pity is a little dramatic if I’m being honest. We’ve been codependent for so long that it’s like losing a limb, but you can still manage to live without an arm.

Her coworker’s whiny voice weasels its way into my brain, giving me a headache. I fucking hate parties.

“I think I’m going to go greet someone,” I interrupt abruptly. Vivian’s smile falters for just a second before giving me a nod. The girl doesn’t even notice, just keeps running her mouth.

I make my escape to the bar and order three shots of vodka. The only way I’m going to survive this is if I drink until I’m complacent. The bartender places them in front of me and moves on to a couple on the other side of the bar.

“One for the stupid fucking night,” I murmur, tossing it back. “One for my inhibitions, and one for the Fates who clearly have it out to get me.”

My old friend Clo seems like a faraway dream now. I wonder what happened to her. I like to think she’s doing something wild like owning her own bar where people dance and sing on the counters. Maybe she’s a stripper at some classy club. Wherever she is, I hope she’s having a good time.

“Still participatin’ in that ridiculous ritual?” Stafford slides up next to me. “I would think ya would tire of it.”

“You’re late.”

“I was busy.” He drums his fingertips on the counter, getting the bartender's attention. He gives Stafford a displeased look. “Two whiskeys. Neat.”

My fucking savior.

The two golden canines gleaming from Staff’s grin make him look like a wolf of a man. His chestnut hair is tucked behind his ears. Instead of his typical dirty pub owner look, he’s wearing a gray tweed suit that screams seedy businessman.

I don’t truly know how old Stafford is. In the Underworld, age is irrelevant. He’s a little older than me, maybe in his early thirties, but it’s hard to discern. He hasn’t changed much since the first day I met him almost nine years ago, other than his haircut. I just know him better now.

“Ye’ve got blood on your hands, lass,” he retorts. He isn’t wrong. My nails are stained red.

“I’m an artist,” I reason.

He snorts. “Yeah, the art of torture.” The bartender sets down the drinks, and hurries away lest he be my next victim.

“Did you pay for this place?” It’s a beautiful venue. High ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and art decorating the walls. So opposite of who we are as people.

“It was a weddin’ gift. I figured only one of ya would get married so might as well spare no expense,” he teases me.

After our relocation, Stafford became a staple in our lives. It seemed like he felt he had some sort of duty to stand in where Killian was missing. He saw my pain, and gave me an outlet for it. I earned his respect, and he earned mine.

“It’s ostentatious. Do you even know what that means?”

“I love it when ya say big words.” Always such a flirt.

“Get away from me. Go make a friend.”

“Ya are my friend.”

I roll my eyes. “Ugh, I feel bad for you.”

“So, it’ll be a pity fuck tonight? I s’pose I’ll take what I can get.” He looks at me over his glass as he sips.

“They’re all pity fucks when it comes to you,” I remind him.

Bella strides up to us in her navy suit with gold embroidered swirls. “Staff, good to see you. Glad you could make it out.” They shake each other’s hands.

“How are you holding up?” I ask her.