Page 2 of Knot Like Other Girls

"Sounds... lovely," I manage, trying not to grimace.

"Oh, it was!" She pats my hand, her fingers cold against my skin. I've never seen such smooth fingers without any lines around the knuckles, but here we are. "And I'm sure you'll look absolutely divine when it's your turn. Braxley has such exquisite taste."

Before I can respond, a commotion near the entrance catches everyone's attention. A small army of waiters is filing in, each carrying what looks like a miniature firework. They spread out around the restaurant, positioning themselves near the windows.

Braxley claps his hands together, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "Ooh, right on schedule! Everyone, out to the terrace! Quickly now, we don't want to miss the show!"

My heart sinks as the other diners eagerly push back their chairs, following Braxley's lead.

This is it.

The moment I've been dreading all night.

I stand on shaky legs, smoothing down my dress–a slinky, sequined number that Braxley picked out. It's too tight, too revealing, nothing like what I'd choose for myself. But that doesn't matter. Nothing about me matters at this moment.

As we file out onto the terrace, the warm Mediterranean air hits me like a wall. It's thick with the scent of salt and flowers,tinged with the acrid smell of gunpowder. The sky above is velvet black, studded with stars that seem impossibly bright.

Braxley positions himself at the center of the terrace, preening as his friends gather around him. I hang back, trying to make myself as small as possible.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Braxley announces, his voice carrying across the crowd. "I hope you're ready for a spectacle unlike anything you've ever seen!"

On cue, the first firework shoots into the sky, exploding in a shower of gold sparks. More follow, painting the night in a dazzling array of colors. Oohs and aahs ripple through the crowd.

I watch, my stomach twisting into knots, as the fireworks form patterns in the sky. Hearts. Flowers. And then, finally, two giant letters.

B&B.

Braxley turns to me, his face illuminated by the glow of the fireworks. He's smiling, but it doesn't reach his eyes. This isn't about love or connection. It's about spectacle. About having something to post on Instagram.

"Bella, darling," he says, loud enough for everyone to hear. "From the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew you were special. Different from all the other omegas."

I want to laugh. Or cry. Or both. Different? He doesn't know the first thing about me. Doesn't care to.

As if on cue, a band starts playing somewhere nearby. A saccharine love song. The crowd parts, forming a circle around us.

Braxley drops to one knee, his designer pants surely getting stained by the terrace's rough stone. The crowd gasps in unison, like they're all extras in some cheesy rom-com. I want to roll my eyes, but I'm frozen in place, my heart pounding so hard I'm sure everyone can hear it over the sappy music.

"Isabella Emerson," Braxley begins, his voice pitched to carry. He's not looking at me, but at the sea of phones recording this moment. "You are worthy of being a Worthington."

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a box. When he opens it, I'm blinded by the enormous diamond ring inside. It's gaudy, ostentatious, and so perfectly Braxley that I almost laugh in spite of my terror.

"Will you marry me?"

The crowd holds its collective breath. All eyes are on me. Braxley's friends. The restaurant staff. The security team. Even the damn seagulls seem to be waiting for my answer.

My mouth goes dry. The word "no" is right there, on the tip of my tongue. But it won't come out. I think of my family, of the debts this marriage would erase, of the life I'm supposed to want.

I open my mouth, not sure what's going to come out, when suddenly?—

BANG!

The sound rips through the night, drowning out the music and the lapping waves. For a split second, everything freezes.

Then all hell breaks loose.

Screams erupt from every direction. People scatter like startled birds, knocking over chairs and tables in their panic. Champagne glasses shatter on the ground, the expensive liquid mixing with spilled food and trampled flowers.

And Braxley? The man who's supposed to be my alpha, my protector?

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