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“If you wear cowboy boots to our wedding, I’m going with Ambrose.”
“That’s fair,” Elias says. “Ambrose would never wear rhinestones.”
I gasp. “How dare you both insult my future footwear fantasies.”
And just when I think the night can’t get any more cursed—
She arrives.
A woman. No—a force of nature. Feathers. Lace. Abosomthat defies gravity, reason,andphysics. The kind of décolletage that requires its own postal code. She floats—no, sheheaves—into view beside Sir Bouncesworth the Third like a goddess of gaudy spectacle, and every jaw in a fifty-foot radius forgets its job.
Even the seat beneath her flinches. I stare. Ihaveto stare. It’s like a train crash made of glitter and regrets.
“Oh,” I whisper, reverent. “She’s here to steal the scene. And my will to live.”
Elias leans forward so fast he nearly knees Luna in the back. “Silas. Silas. Hertits.They havefeathers.”
“Shhh,” I whisper. “Don’t look directly at them. They’re like suns. You’ll go blind.”
Luna is frozen beside me, one hand halfway to her drink, the other gripping the armrest like she’s bracing for impact. Which is fair. The feathered bosom goddess has entered the ring. The balance of power has shifted.
Her corset is less fashion and more divine punishment. Her dress is the color of spilled wine and questionable decisions. And I swear to every god above, she just adjusted her…assetswith both hands and a little hop.
Elias makes a noise like a dying bird.
“Silas,” he says. “Silas, I need you to hold me.”
“Not now, darling. I’m too emotionally compromised.”
“I think I saw one wink at me,” he whispers.
“I think it winkedtwice.”
That image is permanent.
“Why is this theater cursed?” she murmurs.
“Because the gods love drama,” I breathe. “And we are the sacrifice.”
“I want to leave.”
“Youdon’t, though,” I say, nudging her playfully. “You live for this chaos. Admit it. You love watching me spiral.”
“Youmakeyourself spiral.”
“For your amusement. For yourpleasure, Luna.”
Elias chokes beside us.
I lean closer, dropping my voice to something just barely a whisper. “You’re already bonded to me. Now you just have to marry me so I can legally shield you from further feather-related trauma.”
“No,” she says again, a little too fast, which meansmaybe.
But she’s laughing. And gods, that makes it all worth it.
Even if her laughter is echoing in the same cursed airspace as that bosom’s latest gravity-defying bounce.
The curtain starts to rise.