Page 4 of Red Velvet

"It's my sister's wedding," I say, circumnavigating any accusation that could come with the truth.

"That's not answering my question," he points out, a crease appearing between his eyebrows.

My insecurity emerges with a helpless chuckle.

"I'm the maid of honor and I’m out here on the balcony, drinking a bottle of champagne all by myself," I blurt out. "What does that tell you?"

His dark gaze locks me into place, creating the urge to take another swig from the bottle, but I don't give in to it this time.

"Well, you're not by yourself anymore," he says. "But yeah, I'm guessing you're enjoying this shindig as much as I am."

I eye him from the side, unsure where he's going with this. Why is he even here if he hates it so much?

Who is he?

"I hate weddings,” he states. “Always have."

Thick smoke fills the dimly lit air between us as he takes another puff, paying no attention to whether he's bothering me with it or not.

"Why?" I hear myself ask.

"It's ridiculous," he says, shaking his head. "And so redundant. Who needs it nowadays?"

He looks at me, arching his eyebrows as he waits for a response that I'm unable to give.

"I mean, I guess it kind of made sense hundreds of years ago," he adds. "You know, when it was a way to secure a kingdom's future, and to tie empires and countries together to become friends. But we don't need this bullshit anymore. We have trade for that now."

I listen to his odd rant, still riddled with questions I don't dare ask.

"There are other reasons to get married," I say in a weak voice.

He scoffs. "Like what?"

"I don't know, declaring your love for each other? Sharing your happiness with family and friends? Committing to each other?" I shrug. My words lack conviction. Even I don't believe what I'm saying.

"Whatever." He takes another pull from his cigarette. "It's all nonsense if you ask me. It condemns people to unhappiness."

I look up at him, taking a deep breath before I admit, "I almost got married myself."

I don't know why I'm telling him this. I don't even know who he is, and what he's saying is obnoxious and mean, to say the least. But there's something about him that pulls me in.

Something that pushes me to say things I normally wouldn't say.

Something that makes me want to speak about the saddest and most tragic thing that ever happened in my life, something that left a mark, a wound that won't heal any time soon.

Something I deliberately brought upon myself.

The mysterious stranger locks me down with his dark gaze, an even deeper crease parting his eyebrows now.

"I'm not joking," I add, and he shakes his head.

"Never thought you were. Just wondering what ‘almost’ means. What happened?"

I let out a deep sigh, and before I know it, I'm bringing the bottle to my lips again. But this time he intervenes before I can take another swallow. His hand closes around my wrist in a tight grip and I freeze midmotion, stunned by his sudden move and the electric sparks his touch sends through my body. Unfamiliar heat radiates from his skin to mine, almost sizzling in an intrusive manner that has me torn between wanting to free myself from him and yearning for more.

"Talk first," he mutters. "Drink after."

I glare at him, furious and intimidated at the same time.

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