Page 74 of The Misfit

Salem glides out onto the dance floor, but she’s not alone. Aries—my supposed best friend, the bastard who tried to stir the pot at The Mill—holds her hand, leading her in a perfect waltz. She’s laughing, actually laughing, her head tipped back as he spins her.

“Lee?” Charlotte tugs my arm. “Are you okay? You seem distracted.”

Distracted doesn’t begin to cover it. Salem’s burgundy dress flows around her legs as Aries guides her through another turn. His hand sits properly on her waist, exactly where mine should be. I clench my jaw, my teeth grinding to the point of pain. Salem’s silk-covered fingers rest on his shoulder like they belong there.

They look … right … together.

Normal.

The kind of couple that belongs at charity galas.

“Would you like to dance?” Charlotte asks, pressing closer. “The string quartet is playing our song.”

We don’t have a song. We don’t have anything.

I would tell her that, but I can’t tear my eyes away from Salem and Aries long enough to correct her. Can’t focus on anything except the way Salem’s smile reaches her eyes. Is this the first time I’ve seen her smile tonight? Truly smile?

Because of him.

My best friend.

The bourbon churns in my stomach as Aries leans down to whisper something in Salem’s ear. She laughs again, and dark, angry jealousy unfurls in my chest.

Mine.

The word echoes in my head like a war drum.

Even if it’s fake.

Even if it’s pretend.

She’s mine.

“Your mother mentioned wedding venues,” Charlotte drones on, but her words blur into white noise. All I can focus on is Salem’s hand sliding from Aries’s shoulder to his chest as he guides her through another turn.

When did she get comfortable touching people?

She’s supposed to count first. Prepare herself. Take three steadying breaths.

Apparently, not anymore. Since there she is, moving like water through Aries’s arms, while I’m drowning in bourbon and jealousy beside Hartford’s most eligible socialite.

“The Henderson estate has lovely gardens,” Charlotte continues, her fingers trailing down my arm. “Perfect for a spring ceremony, don’t you think?”

Salem tips her head back. Her throat is exposed, perfect and pale against burgundy silk. Aries’s hand slides lower on her back—still proper, still society-approved, but too fucking intimate.

“Lee?” Charlotte tugs my sleeve. “You’re being terribly rude.”

Good. Maybe if I’m rude enough, she’ll take the hint and fucking disappear. Let me watch this nightmare unfold without her running commentary about fucking garden ceremonies. She’s out of her mind if she thinks I would truly go through with marrying her. So is my mother.

Aries spins Salem again, and when she returns to him this time, their bodies align perfectly. No careful distance. No measured breaths. No counting tiles or steps or moments before contact.

She trusts him.

The realization burns a path of fire down my throat that’s far worse than any glass of bourbon.

“They do make a striking couple,” Charlotte muses, following my gaze. “Your friend Aries comes from good stock. Old money, like us. And the Masters girl … well, she seems more comfortable with him, doesn’t she? More natural?”

The crystal glass in my hand cracks. Charlotte jumps back as bourbon spills over my fingers, but I barely notice. Salem’s laughing again, her silk-covered hand pressed to Aries’s chest as he whispers something else in her ear.

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