Kerill left me at a small table, and the moment I was alone, the awkwardness hit me full force. I felt tiny, exposed, like I didn't belong in this crowd at all.
"Hi."
I turned to see two women approaching. Their outfits were daring, and though the lighting was dim, it was clear they took care of themselves.
"Hello," I replied cautiously.
"You must be Charlene, Kerill's… new wife," said the one in an ocean‑blue gown. The emphasis on new was deliberate, sharp.
"That's me," I said quietly.
"No offense, but I honestly don't understand why Kerill and Monica broke up," she continued, her voice casual but edged with something I couldn't quite name. "They were literally the perfect couple. I saw them grow up together, fall in love, and get married. No offense to you, of course."
It stung. Deeply. But I had nothing to say. I let her words hang between us.
"It's… okay," I muttered.
"Was it hard?" she asked again.
"Excuse me?"
"You know… stepping into their world. They already have a life, children… isn't it difficult to compete?"
Compete? I blinked. Compete with Monica? That wasn't what I was here for.
"Compete… for what, Cindy?"
We turned to see Kerill standing beside us, serious and silent.
"Hi there, cousin!" Cindy said brightly. So they were family.
"Compete for what?" he asked, repeating my earlier question.
"Nothing. I was just talking to your new wife. I… I was surprised by the news. As one of Monica's closest friends, I was hurt too. You understand, right, Charlene?" she said, looking at me expectantly.
I stayed silent, feeling trapped.
"You already know why we broke up. Everyone needs to move on, Cindy. That includes you."
"Oh, wow," she said, stunned. "I'm just saying, almost ten years together… it feels like such a waste. I know your wife wouldn't mind—"
"I've moved on, Cindy. I'm happy with my wife. Please don't make her uncomfortable."
Her jaw dropped. Mine nearly did too. Then Kerill wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me close. Possessively. Protectively.
"Sorry," she muttered, stepping back.
Once they left, I moved away from him. I couldn't put a name to the feelings swirling inside me.
"I'm going to the restroom," I said, not waiting for his reply.
But I didn't go to the restroom. I went to the terrace on the third floor, letting the night air hit me. There were only a few people up there. I leaned on the railing, trying to breathe.
A waiter passed with a bottle of wine and four glasses. I didn't ask for a glass. I took the bottle.
"This is mine," I said, turning my back on him.
I drank straight from the bottle. The wine burned, sharp and bitter. Richness tasted like nothing but bitterness.
Minutes passed—or hours—and the bottle was empty. My vision blurred, my balance off.
"You're here. I've been looking everywhere for you," said a voice behind me. I turned, stumbled, almost fell. His hand caught my arm.
"How did you get drunk?" he asked, irritation evident.
"I drank… I didn't think I'd get drunk from water, did I?" I said with forced humor.
His face was fuzzy to me, but I recognized the voice.
"This wine is eighty percent alcohol! You can't handle this," he snapped.
"Sorry," I muttered. I tried to step away, but my legs weren't cooperating.
"Let's go home," he said, pulling me close.
"I can't walk!" I protested. My knees were numb.
Without warning, he lifted me like I weighed nothing, carrying me as though I were a bride on her way to the honeymoon.
"You smell… amazing," I whispered, catching the faint scent of his expensive cologne. Even blurry, I could see the strength of his chest.
"Your chest is bigger than mine," I muttered, comparing.
"Unfair."
"Shut up or I'll drop you," he said, almost casually.
I stayed silent, letting him carry me. My eyes closed.
"We're going home, Dad. She's drunk," someone said. I barely registered it.
When I opened my eyes, he was buckling me into the seatbelt.
"Are we going home?" I asked.
"Obviously," he replied.
"Why?"
"Because you're drunk," he said simply.
"I'm not that drunk! The party's not over… Kerill might be mad."
I kicked, frustrated.
He laughed softly. "Do you even know who I am?"
"Black?" I ventured.
He didn't answer. The engine started, and the car moved.
"Are we going home?" I asked again.
"Yes," he said flatly.
"Why?"
"Can you just sleep? You're being annoying."
"I don't want to!" I shouted, grabbing his hand on the wheel.
"What are you doing? We could crash!"
"I don't care!"
"Charlene! Let go!"
"No!"
The car skidded to a stop, and I almost flew forward.
"What is wrong with you?! You could've gotten us killed!" he yelled.
"I don't want to go home!" I shouted, stomping my foot.
"Stop acting like a child. We're going home."
"No!"
He sighed, exasperated. "Charlene, don't test me—what are you doing?!"
I dropped the thin strap of my dress over my shoulder.
"It's hot! I'm sweating!" I protested.
"Put it back!" he demanded.
I ignored him, lowering it further. I watched as he swallowed hard, deliberately avoiding my gaze.
I didn't know what came over me, but I leaned closer. Too close. I could hear his breath.
"Kerill… why?"
Finally, his face came into focus. I tried to kiss him, but he pulled back.
"Stop."
"Why?"
He went quiet. I leaned closer.
"Stop it! You're drunk!"
"Why can't I?" I nearly cried. "Why? Why?!"
"Because it's wrong! Because it's not allowed! Fix yourself—"
Before he could finish, I took his hand and placed it on my cheek. Tears streamed down as I stared at him.
"Just try… please…"
He froze, staring back. And this time, I kissed him again. He didn't resist.