Page 75 of Intense
“Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Quinn.”
The room spins.
A sea of faces, but I only see his. That smug, self-satisfied grin.
My breath lodges in my throat. I can’t even move. My body forgets how.
What the fuck is this?
Finn Quinn doesn’t throw parties. He doesn’t even like people. He makes that abundantly clear.
And yet here he stands, center stage, celebrating a joke that only he finds funny.
I move through the room like a woman possessed. People whisper congratulations like I’m a fucking bride instead of a hostage.
Poppy catches my eye, confusion etched across her face.
This is the most humiliating moment of my life.
I stop when I reach him.
“What in the actual fuck do you think you’re doing?” I hiss.
“Celebrating my wonderful wife.” He smirks.
I shake my head, barely containing the scream building in my chest.
“Do you want me to make a scene?” I snap.
He tsks, snakes his arm around my waist, and pulls me close—his lips brushing my ear.
“Where are your rings, wife?”
“I’m not wearing them. This wedding isn’t real. Do we need to send you to the psych ward? This is insane. Even for you.”
He chuckles, but it’s warm, not patronizing. Too intimate. Too real.
“I thought you’d appreciate the effort.”
I wrench away from him and spin, hands planted firmly on my hips.
“Take it all down. And leave me the hell alone. I am not your wife.”
His lips curl at the edges. He’s enjoying this too much.
But then his expression falters. Concern flickers. Genuine, maybe.
“Steph, are you okay?”
And that nearly breaks me.
Because if he cared, he wouldn’t be doing this. He wouldn’t be dragging my name, my work, my whole fucking life into his twisted idea of love or revenge or obsession.
Tears burn behind my eyes. I blink hard.
No one sees me cry. No one has ever stayed long enough to deserve that piece of me.
I back away. Silent.
