Chapter 13
He stormed down the stairs so fast, I could hear the heavy footsteps before I saw him
again.
“Amelia,” he barked, “what the hell is this?”
I blinked innocently. “This?” I slid my hand around Luther’s thick arm. “This is my date.”
Luther gave him a dry smile. “Favio.”
“Luther,” Favio said through clenched teeth. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”
“I didn’t think you’d invite your own cousin to a wedding you’re clearly not ready for.”
Ohhh.
So they knew each other.
Not best–buds kind of cousin. More like I’ll throw you off a yacht if no one’s watching kind
of cousin.
Favio stepped toward me, like he had the right. Like he forgot this wasn’t five years ago.
“Amelia, you can’t just-”
But I was faster. I pulled Luther closer and tilted my head up. He caught on immediately, leaned in, and I kissed him.
Soft. Slow. Long enough to sting.
Then I turned back to Favio, licking my bottom lip. “It’s rude to grab someone’s girlfriend, Favio. Can’t you see me and Luther are… close?”
His face turned blood red. He reached for Luther like he was gonna deck him–poor dumb move, really–but before he could throw the punch-
“Favio!”
Mrs. Cunningham’s voice sliced through the air like a slap. Elegant. Ice cold. Furious.
We all froze.
She was standing at the garden path, flanked by security, her heels clicking with murder. “Not here. Not now. This is your wedding week.”
I tilted my head and smiled at Favio.
“Relax,” I whispered., “Wouldn’t want the tabloids to catch the groom trying to throw hands over his ex.”
He stared at me, chest heaving.
And Luther?
He just casually wiped his lips and grinned. “You’re gonna need more than a tantrum to compete with me, cousin.”
Let the games begin.
12:39 Tue, 24 Jun ON.
97%
There’s something delicious about sipping champagne in a silk robe while watching the sky bleed gold outside your private suite–especially when you know half the guest list wants you dead in the prettiest way.
I hadn’t even finished my second glass when the double doors to the garden terrace flew open, heels stabbing the marble like they were trying to crack it.
Mrs. Cunningham.
Frostbitten elegance. Chanel suit. The aura of someone who thought God took notes from her brunch menu.
Her voice? A blade coated in civility.
“How dare you show your face here,” she hissed, just loud enough to draw eyes from the nearby garden lounge where the guests were pretending not to eavesdrop. “This is a sacred family celebration, not some tabloid sideshow.”
I didn’t flinch. Just tilted my head, crossed my legs slowly, and sipped my champagne with a smile so calm it was insulting.
“Oh, I thought you’d remember,” I said sweetly, “you handed my brother the invitation on behalf of the family. Surely you didn’t expect me to ignore the chance to witness my ex–husband marry the woman he betrayed me for.”
Her jaw locked. A few guests nearby stifled gasps. One girl fumbled with her phone like she couldn’t unlock it fast enough.
Mrs. Cunningham blinked like I’d spit in her afternoon tea, then turned and stalked away without another word–too proud to scream, too smart to fight where cameras might be rolling.
I had exactly seven minutes of peace before Caroline came in like a hurricane in heels.
She didn’t knock. Of course not.
The doors slammed open, her perfume announcing her before the hysteria did.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she shrieked. “You’re staying in my wing?”
I didn’t even sit up. I just lounged deeper into the velvet sofa and poured myself more wine. “Technically, sweetheart,” I said lazily, “the wing belongs to the Rodrigo Corporation. We bought this island five years ago. I just never mentioned it.”
Her mouth flapped, stunned, before she found her voice again. “You manipulative, spiteful little-”
I raised one brow. “Is that how we’re doing this? Full meltdown before dinner?”
She marched closer, finger waving, voice pitchy. “You think you’re clever, don’t you? Showing up here like some vengeful ghost. This is my wedding. My moment.”
I took another sip, letting the silence hang before I dropped it like a guillotine. “I’m not the one who cheated with a Frenchman and got caught with receipts. Shouldn’t you be the one hiding?”
The color drained from her face. She tried to slap me. Her hand flew–fast, desperate, ugly.
2/3 15.3%
12:39 Tue, 24 Jun M
97%
But mine was faster. I caught her wrist mid–air like it was nothing. My grip? Gentle. Deadly.
“Don’t embarrass yourself, sweetheart,” I said, voice ice–dipped. “I don’t slap. I sue.”
She gasped, tore her hand free, and stumbled backward like she’d just touched fire. Then she ran–heels clacking, mascara threatening betrayal.
Paparazzi were waiting. Because of course they were. One of them even shouted, “Caroline, are you okay?!” like this was an episode of some designer soap opera.
I stood, stretched lazily, and strolled toward the balcony where Luther was leaned against the rail with his usual impossible cool.
He was watching it all. Amused. Arms crossed over his broad chest. That smirk of his–the one that said you just made my day–was in full bloom.
“Damn,” he said, shaking his head as I passed him a fresh glass of wine. “That was hot.”
I grinned. “You think that was hot? Wait until I toast at the reception.”
He laughed, low and deep. “Remind me to stay close. Feels like someone might try to poison your wine.”
“Let them try.” I winked. “They always forget I drink venom like champagne.”
He clinked his glass with mine.
I leaned against the balcony rail, staring down at the chaos below. Caroline sobbing into a waiter’s shoulder. Mrs. Cunningham shouting into her phone. Guests murmuring like bees around blood.
And then I dropped the real match into the gasoline.
I said it loud enough for the nearby guests to hear. I wanted them to hear.
“It’s poetic, isn’t it?” I mused. “Favio killed our child to protect Caroline… and now he’s marrying her… even though the baby she had wasn’t even his. Shocking. Touching. Almost Shakespearean.”
Phones clicked. Murmurs exploded. And Luther?
He just looked at me like I was something dangerous and divine.
“Amelia Rodrigo,” he said with a low whistle. “You’re not just crashing the wedding. You’re rewriting the damn script.”
“Good,” I said, sipping again. “Because this is my stage now.”
97%
Midnight…
