Page 25 of Rule Breakers Fall Hardest

It’s my wedding night, and I’m all by myself.

Sure, it was never going to be a real wedding night, but I didn’t realize I’d signed myself up to a lifetime of loneliness with this deal either. I thought… well, I guess I stupidly thought we could repair our friendship. Better friends than nothing, but apparently, he doesn’t see it like that.

I snag my phone from the ledge around the tub, desperately hoping to see a text or call for him, but there’s nothing. The lack of notifications only leaves me feeling more pathetic.

When my fingers begin to prune, I wrap myself in a big, fluffy robe and scan the room service menu beside the bed. The last thing I feel like doing is eating, but my growling stomach disagrees with me.

By the time I’ve finished ordering, the hotel staff probably assumes I’m throwing a party. I ordered way more than one person can ever dream of eating. But now’s a perfect time to sample a little bit of everything.

Remote in hand, I lie on my stomach and turn on the TV. The first menu I find lists a handful of early-access movies available for purchase, so I do what any sensible person in my position would do—I buy them all.

I desperately want to text him, check on him, but I hold myself back. I can’t start down this path on night one. I’d rather not show him just how pathetic I can be so soon.

I click the icon for the first movie on the list and let it play in the background. There’s a complimentary bottle of champagne chilling, so I pop the cork and pour myself a glass. I don’t even like champagne, but I might as well drink it. It’s not like I have anything better to do. I settle into the middle of the bed since I have it all to myself tonight and sip the bubbly.

The irony here isn’t lost on me. All I wanted when I was alittle girl was to marry Daire and become Mrs. Hendricks. Now I’ve done it, but this scenario looks nothing like how I pictured it would.

You’re helping him out. That’s all. You knew what you were getting into.

I did, but that small part of me that hoped things would be different couldn’t be quelled.

When room service knocks on the door, I hop up to let them inside. The guy scans the room, probably wondering where all my guests are, but he has the decency not to ask. I sign the slip for the food, and since he’s keeping his comments to himself, I add a more than generous tip.

“Thank you,” I tell him as he heads for the door. Just because I’m suffering in my feels doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten my manners. Daire can think what he wants of me, but if there’s one thing my parents and nannies instilled in me and my younger sister, it’s to use our manners.

Being rich isn’t an excuse to be a dick, my dad used to say.

To which my mom would berate him for saying the worddick, especially when my little sister, Grace, would repeat the word nonstop for the rest of the day. I miss my sister so much. It doesn’t matter that I spent all summer with her in the Hamptons.

My sister was a welcome surprise for my parents and for me. I was ten when she was born. We knew from early on during my mom’s pregnancy that she had Down Syndrome. My parents didn’t once balk at the diagnosis, at least not that I saw. Instead, they embraced it with open arms. They’ve never treated Grace any differently than they do me. Okay, maybe that’s not entirely true. They probably treat her a bit better, but only because she really is the best. It’s impossible not to love her. She’s a ray of sunshine, always smiling and giving hugs, but she can be brutally honest. Sometimes that’s a great thing, other times, not so much—like the time she told our waitress she could see her boogers.

She’s almost twelve now, so she’s gotten asmidgebetter at filtering herself.

If she were here, she would read Daire to filth for his behavior. I smile, thinking about the way she’d call him a butthead.

She was only six when our friendship shattered, so she doesn’t know him well, but she knows he broke my heart.

After I’ve inspected the spread of food, I grab the cheese board and take it to the bed with me. Cheese solves all problems. At least, that’s what I’m hoping. It’s nearly midnight, so the only lights outside come from the establishments nearby.

I haven’t checked my social media in hours, and I always keep my notifications off, but I have nothing else better to do on my wedding night. So I wrap a small hunk of cheese in a piece of lavish bread and take a bite as I unlock my phone.

The second I open Snapchat, I nearly choke.

Video after video of Daire appears. It’s a party at his house. Though I suppose the place isn’this, but it’s where he lives. For now. Tears flood my eyes as I watch. The party isn’t the issue. No, his meltdown is what steals my breath. It’s like a dagger to the heart. He’s trashed, his hair a mess and his eyes bloodshot. The guy is falling apart. Maybe I could feel a smidge of sympathy for him, but his words erase any softness I have toward him.

The phone shakes in my hand as I force myself to watch the video.

On screen, Daire stands in the middle of a living room, surrounded by people.

“Oh, and guess what? I’m fucking hitched now.” He sneers the words, as if his marital status is a death sentence. As if he wasn’t the onebeggingme.

He pulls out the ring I put on him only hours ago and slips it onto his right ring finger instead of the left.

“And no, not to the baby mama. She’s a professor and a real bitch. She didn’t tell me she was pregnant. She thought she could keep him from me, but I won’t let her. No, sir.” He smacks a hand roughly against his chest as tears slide down his cheeks.

Dammit, I hate myself for feeling sorry for him.

“So, now I’m married to Rosie—yeah, that girl I can’t fucking stand because—” He shakes his head. “That’s not important.”

---