Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
So I’ll do what I do best.
I’ll drink until the memories blur, and I’ll pretend nothing matters, and I’ll prove them all right about exactly how unsuitable I really am.
Even if it kills me.
Even if I lose everything.
Even if Salem’s dismissal already feels like drowning.
“There you are, darling.” Mother’s voice cuts through my bourbon haze. “We need family photos before the announcement. Do try to look presentable.”
Family photos. We take so fucking many of them, like we’re actually a family and not just perfectly arranged props in her ongoing performance. Like Pastor James isn’t watching from across the room, probably proud of how well his therapy took.
“Where’s Salem?” Mother continues, brushing invisible lint from my jacket. “She needs to be in these. One last official documentation of your … experiment. When you and Charlotte marry, you can use them in party anecdotes about how you tried to run away from your destiny.”
I want to tell her to fuck off because she’s just being cruel, rubbing it in.
I want to throw my drink in her perfectly made-up face. I want to scream that Salem isn’t an experiment—she’s everything that’s real in my fake world. But the bourbon’s made my tongue heavy, my thoughts slow.
“I’ll find her.” Aries appears beside us, all perfect society manners. When did he get so good at this? “Lee, maybe you should freshen up first.”
The suggestion carries weight I’m too drunk to interpret. But before I can respond, I see her—Salem, moving through the crowd with careful grace. The burgundy dress I chose flows around her legs, making her look like something from a dream. A dream I never deserved.
She approaches without being called, probably seeing the gathering of family members. Always so aware of her obligations. Always so perfect in her performance.
“Salem, darling.” Mother’s voice drips honey-coated venom. “We were just looking for you. Family photos, you know.”
“Of course.” Salem’s smile is flawless, practiced, empty. She takes her place beside me without touching me, maintaining a careful distance that feels like miles.
She smells like cherry blossoms and heartbreak. The scent makes me want another drink, but Aries has conveniently disappeared with my glass.
“Lee,” she says softly, perfectly polite. “You might want to stand up straighter.”
The gentle suggestion hurts worse than any cruelty. Because this is what we’ve become—strangers exchanging careful words, maintaining perfect appearances, pretending we never counted breaths together at three a.m.
“Right,” I manage, trying to focus through the bourbon. “Wouldn’t want to ruin Mother’s perfect photos.”
Something flickers in Salem’s eyes—pain? Pity? It doesn’t matter; her smile never wavers. She’s better at this performance than I ever was. Better at maintaining composure. Better at everything.
No wonder she found it so easy to walk away.
No wonder she saw through all my carefully constructed walls.
No wonder she’s ready to be done with this arrangement.
The photographer starts arranging us, and Salem shifts slightly, creating more space between us. Even drunk, I feel the loss of her warmth like a physical wound.
This is what I deserve, isn’t it?
This careful distance.
This perfect politeness.
This gentle dismissal from someone who saw all of me and found me wanting.
Just like Pastor James predicted.
Just like Mother always knew.
Just like everyone eventually comes to realize.
I’m not suitable for anyone.
Especially not Salem.
The photos feel endless—Mother arranging and rearranging us like dolls in her perfect tableau. Salem maintains her flawless smile, her careful distance, her impeccable performance. I maintain my vertical position through sheer spite and several more stolen drinks.
Emma glows with genuine happiness about her engagement, making everything worse. Because this is what real love looks like. This is everything I’ll never have, everything I don’t deserve.
“Just a few more,” the photographer calls, adjusting lights that send pain stabbing through my head. “Mr. Sterling, perhaps you could stand closer to Miss Masters?”
Salem doesn’t flinch when I sway nearer. Doesn’t react when my hand brushes her waist. Doesn’t show any sign that we ever meant anything to each other beyond this carefully choreographed scene.
“Perfect!” the photographer exclaims, but nothing is perfect. Not the way Salem holds herself rigid beside me. Not the way Mother watches with calculating eyes. Not the way Pastor James lingers at the edges of the crowd, a constant reminder of everything I tried to drink away.
“Almost done,” Salem whispers, and I hate how gentle she sounds. Like I’m something fragile. Something broken. Something that needs her careful handling even now.
“Don’t.” The word comes out sharper than intended. “Don’t pretend to care.”
She does flinch then, just slightly. A crack in her perfect composure that disappears so quickly I might have imagined it.
“Lee—”
“You made yourself clear earlier.” The bourbon makes me cruel, honest, and desperate. “This is just business, right? An arrangement. The final performance.”
The camera captures her careful mask slipping back into place. Captures the way she steps slightly away from me. Captures the exact moment I realize I’ve lost the only real thing I’ve ever had.