Page 17 of Bitten Vampire (The Bitten Chronicles #2)

Chapter Seventeen

I’m still completely freaked out about yesterday—about rescuing that little boy.

If I hadn’t been scrolling at that exact moment, if I had not slipped into a social-media trance, would he have died?

I’m no superhero; I’m not anyone special.

Yet what a thing to be able to do—visions of real life.

I don’t think I will be saving people every day, but it’s as though this power needs me to believe it’s real.

He would have died if I’d ignored that pull, that compulsion to go.

It’s all so strange and terrifying.

House thinks I’m psychic, and it makes sense. I did have an odd little gift I had spent ten years ignoring before my life went to shit.

I won’t ignore it again; I will try to learn about it even if it doesn’t feel real. But for today, I need to set it aside, so I shove my phone into the glove compartment. I have a wedding to attend.

I park my car a street away from the venue and walk the rest of the distance. House has worked her fairy-godmother magic on me. She wasn’t exaggerating when she promised to handle my hair and makeup. Flawless. Not overdone. Elegant.

I grip the fancy wrapped wedding gift as though it might bite me.

House and I spent hours weighing the options. We debated books, booze, bonsai trees, but in the end, we chose something that struck the perfect balance between polite and pointed.

A luxury candle in an elegant hand-blown glass jar. Scent: fresh linen and citrus. Name on the label: Fresh Start . On the card I wrote:

Wishing you warmth, clarity, and a bright new beginning.

All the best,

Fred.

Amy would find the candle hilarious. I wish she were here. I wish House were flesh and blood. Instead, I’m alone, attending the wedding of my ex-boyfriend and the woman with whom he cheated.

Chin up, shoulders back. I can do this.

The hotel grounds are beautiful: sweeping lawns, immaculate flowerbeds, and a golden stone path without a weed in sight. I follow the clink of glasses, music, the murmur of voices, and a series of curated wedding signs pointing around the building to the rear terrace.

“Fred! Is that you?”

I turn to see Jay’s father.

He approaches, takes my upper arms, and kisses my cheek.

“I’m so glad you came,” he says, voice warm. “Are you all right? I’ve missed you.” His glasses slip down his nose as he peers at me. Jay’s father has always been a gentleman; I’ve never understood how he endures Theresa.

It still hurts that he never defended me against her slander, but why should he? I’m only his son’s ex-partner. I was never family.

“Hi, Hamish,” I reply, matching his smile.

“You look incredible. Being single suits you.”

“Thank you. May I say you look extremely dapper in that suit?”

“Why thank you.”

He guides me onto the patio: broad slabs of white stone framed by manicured gardens and the hotel’s rear facade, where floor-to-ceiling doors stand wide open. Inside, a dining room glows in white and gold tones.

Small groups of guests chat over champagne flutes while waiting staff drift past with silver trays. Somewhere nearby, a string quartet threads the delicate hum of music through the laughter and conversation.

I spot the gift table, place mine among the others—white and gold boxes, tissue-stuffed bags with glittery bows. Mine blends in perfectly: classy, tasteful, not at all petty.

Not… obviously , anyway .

I feel eyes on me. Some curious, others confused, a few outright hostile. The stares range from What’s she doing here? to Wow, her ‘magical makeover’ is impressive.

Yet there are smiles too, little nods of recognition from people I met during those ten long years. Old acquaintances wave as though we’re still connected. I wave back and smile.

It’s curious that none of our former friends are here. Perhaps Melissa planted her designer heel and struck them from the guest list. I still can’t fathom why I’m here or why I came at all. The idea of reclaiming my career seems silly now.

“This is lovely,” I say, my gaze snagging on the ceremony space: rows of white chairs flank a pale aisle and six flower-arched gateways.

Six , as if one weren’t enough. I’m so glad that this isn’t my wedding day.

Nothing says closure like attending your ex’s wedding on your own birthday. Cheers to me.

“Melissa and Theresa worked very hard on all this,” Hamish says with a small grimace, trying to hide behind his glass.

I smile and pat his hand. I’m simply glad to see a friendly face and secretly relieved security didn’t toss me out at the gates. Perhaps that’s the real reason why I didn’t risk the hotel car park.

Hamish passes me a glass of orange juice, then steers me towards a knot of relatives.

“These are a few of Jay’s cousins,” he says. “Maristella, Tracy, Belinda and?—”

“Oh, we’ve met,” Maristella cuts in, eyes wide. “Ages ago, five years, I think?”

“Yes, I think so. Lovely to see you all.” I smile politely.

“You look fantastic! Whatever you’re doing, it’s working,” says Belinda. She and the others exchange one of those tight-lipped glances that says far more than intended.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Tracy blurts, then winces. “Oh, I don’t mean that badly. I just mean… wow.”

“You’re incredibly brave,” Belinda says.

“Incredibly beautiful,” adds a new voice. “Hello, ladies.”

A man steps into the circle with the confidence of someone who has never heard no. Dark hair, film star looks, and he knows it.

“I’m Charlie,” he says, flashing a toothpaste-advert grin. “We haven’t been introduced.”

He offers his hand.

“Fred.” I hesitate, but everyone is watching, so I accept.

Mistake.

He lifts my hand, and instead of a friendly shake, presses a kiss to the back of it. I keep my expression miraculously neutral, though the impulse to wipe away his spit is immediate. I step discreetly back.

“So,” Charlie says with what he clearly thinks is a charming smirk, “bride or groom?”

“The groom,” I reply, taking a healthy gulp of juice. I need alcohol for this. It’s a shame that Jay’s dad is on damage control.

“Fred dated Jay for a few years,” Hamish supplies, trying to help.

Charlie’s eyebrows rise. “He was punching above his weight, wasn’t he?”

He laughs. I don’t.

A deliberate cough sounds behind me .

I turn—and freeze.

Jay stands there, dressed in a dark grey tuxedo and fancy pocket square, a single white rose pinned to his lapel.

My heart does something awful and traitorous. Every muscle tightens, and I instinctively edge closer to Hamish.

Coming here was a very bad idea , my inner voice whispers.

I replay the night I chose to leave him. I see that woman cowering in the kitchen, silent after he caught her with his elbow in the hallway.

When I was younger, I would have pushed him back, told him off, said something. Instead, I swallowed every slight, every cruel word. Not once did I fight back, and the thought disgusts me.

When did I become so pathetic? It must have taken years, so many small moments that chipped away at my self-worth.

The woman I was would have never come here today.

Jay looms over me, and even in four-inch heels I still feel small, tiny, in fact, compared with him.

His dishwater-blond hair brushes his collar, longer than it used to be; he has skipped yet another haircut.

I wonder whether his mother has already berated Melissa, as she used to do with me, as though it were my fault he could never remember the appointment.

His gaze skims over me, and the smile falters into a frown.

“Fred, you’re looking well. Very well.”

Yes, I turned into a vampire a couple of months ago. No biggie. I focus on breathing slow, steady. No one must see that I am panicking .

Of course I knew I would meet him—it is his wedding—but part of me had hoped to float through unnoticed by him. No such luck.

“Yeah, you definitely traded down, pal,” Charlie says, elbowing Jay in the ribs. “I can’t believe you dated this girl, let her go, and she still turned up to your wedding. Burn.” He wiggles his fingers, as though casting some smug ‘bro hex.’

Jay does not rise to it.

“Nine years,” he says, still staring at me. “We were together for nine years.”

I shake my head. “Ten. You forgot the last one while you were cheating on me with Melissa. You must not have noticed I was still around.”

Silence.

I can feel the attention of everyone within earshot. Did I really say that aloud?

I’m not sorry.

I came here for a reason, and these people are smart enough to add two and two together and realise my account makes far more sense than Theresa’s ‘I embezzled money from the company’ excuse.

“Don’t you think you had better get ready for your bride?” I ask, recovering quickly. “If you will excuse me.”

I turn on my heel and walk—deliberately, gracefully—away. Behind one of the massive floral arches, thick with roses and baby’s breath, I release a long sigh.

I hear Maristella mutter, “I want to be Fred when I grow up.”

I cannot decide whether to scream or laugh .

The wedding co-ordinator begins ushering guests to their seats; the ceremony is about to start.

I remain hidden a moment longer, just long enough to collect myself.

Then I slip into an empty seat near the back. Hamish catches my eye and gives a jerky nod before taking his place by the altar.

A few minutes later Theresa sweeps in, every inch the mother of the groom. Her makeup is flawless, her hair artfully sculpted. Arm linked with Jay’s, she marches past as though she were the bride.

I cannot hear her words, but I do not need to. She prods Hamish and Jay like dolls, straightens Hamish’s tie and—judging by Jay’s wince—yanks his hair while adjusting his collar.

Classic Theresa.

The string quartet strikes up the opening bars of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March .

Everyone rises.

I have seen photographs of Melissa; she ought to be radiant on her special day. Instead, she stalks down the aisle with a scowl that could strip wallpaper, her father at her side, pretending nothing is amiss.