Every head in the entire congregation swings toward the double doors I flung open.
My vision is fuzzy, no doubt from the two fifths of Scotch I used to try to drown out the fact that she’s marrying someone else today.
Because a Gable and a Riscoff can never be together.
But that doesn’t mean I’m going to watch Whitney Gable marry someone else and not say a goddamned word.
“You asshole. How dare you?”
Whitney is dressed in white, looking like the perfect bride, aside from the militant look on her face as she stomps down the aisle toward me.
I might’ve miscalculated in my drunken haze.
“You can’t marry him.” I’m pretty sure my words slur, but I don’t care.
“I don’t know why you think you get to have an opinion, but get the hell out of here.”
“I can buy and sell him.” More slurring.
Whitney’s eyes burn with anger.
“I. Don’t. Care. Because you can’t buy me.”
Two sets of arms grab me from behind and drag me back toward the doors.
“Don’t do this—” My words are cut off as I’m shoved down the front steps of the church.
“If you ever look at my sister again, I will fucking kill you myself. I don’t care how much fucking money your family has.” Whitney’s brother looms over me, and I don’t doubt his promise, especially not while he’s wearing his Army dress uniform and green beret.
Next to him is the groom. The man who sold Whitney the biggest crock of shit I’ve ever heard in my life. I told myself there was no way she’d ever go through with it. No way her brother would let her.
I was wrong.
He’d let her marry anyone but a Riscoff.
The groom smirks but says nothing as they both turn and march up the steps.
If I wasn’t so fucking wasted, I’d go back in and try again.
He might be marrying her today, but I’m not done with Whitney Gable.
I’ll never be done with her.