Page 168 of Royal Bargain

The reception is alreadyin full swing when I arrive.

String lights twinkle overhead, soft jazz spilling from a live band tucked into the corner. Everything is tasteful, expensive, disgustingly perfect.

I glide past the check-in table without slowing down, heels clicking against the stone path like applause just for me.

No one stops me. Of course they don’t. Confidence is the best kind of camouflage.

Inside the tent, the crowd is buzzing—men in tailored suits, women in flowing gowns, champagne glasses glinting like stardust. I spot the bar and make a beeline.

The bartender eyes me for half a second before handing over a flute of champagne. Smart man.

I take a long sip, let the bubbles settle on my tongue, then turn to face the room with a smile like a loaded gun.

Let the games begin.

A few heads turn. A few more stare. But I don’t flinch. I toss my hair back, toe off my shoes, and step straight onto the dance floor—alone, glowing, untouchable.

Because if I’m going down, I’m going down in rhinestones and rhythm.

I spin once, twice, laughing like I’ve never heard the word consequences.

And then I see her.

Ingrid.

Standing near the cake, pale as death, a flute of champagne frozen in her hand like she’s just seen a ghost.

Or worse, me.

Next to her, Sasha’s jaw drops. Her face turns red, then purple, then that exact shade of furious she gets when someone else dares to break the rules she’s curated like a Pinterest board. Her lips move—I think I see the words,You have got to be kidding me.

But they don’t stop me. None of them do.

Because just a few feet away, under a canopy of fairy lights, the bride and groom are wrapped in each other’s arms.

Annika is glowing. Liam is grinning.

They don’t even notice me.

And for the first time in a very long time, I feel… safe.

Like maybe no one’s going to throw me out. Not yet.

So I raise my glass to the ceiling, twirl again, and whisper to myself,

“Here’s to ruining everything I touch.”

I down the rest of my champagne and head back toward the bar—because if I’m going to make it through this evening, I’m going to need more liquid courage and maybe a small miracle.

That’s when I see him.

Leaning against the bar like he’s bored out of his mind, hands tucked into his pockets, sleeves rolled to his forearms in a way that should be illegal.

Disheveled curls. Crooked smirk. Blue eyes sharp and restless.

He looks like trouble wrapped in a three-piece suit and a bad idea.

My type, obviously.