𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 |𝟏𝟖+

34 || Lovers Quarrel

The Weeknd - Popular

𝔚𝔚𝔚
Celina

"Here's to Lina, soon to be Kozlov."

"Here's to me who'd rather be dead than live to see that day."

I swing back my first shot of the night while hundreds of pairs of eyes blink back at me, some I know, the majority I don't care to know. Yet somehow they all managed to make it onto this yatch for my bachelorette party.

If you could even call it that.

There was no Vegas, no strippers and certainly no one trustworthy enough to let me have any fun.

Aside from the fact that this multi-million dollar pile of luxurious shit is crawling with businessmen, socialites, dangerous Russians and Italians, this is far from the bachelorette party I had in mind.

I wanted to be somewhere in Vegas, cheating billionaires out of money, and getting plastered at a club with men who had yet to know my name.

Not stuck on some random multi story yatcht miles from New York City, where the only men I'd be gambling with were wealthy made men, and billionaires who were more interested in who I was marrying than me in this gorgeous dress.

"She's kidding..."Hana's smile falters as she sends me a hesitant look. "I think..."

Awkwardness seeps over the crowd that's gathered at the bar, the DJ plays a techno song on the far side of the deck, while low classical music hums from the floors below us.

"To Lina!" I don't care who says it, all I care is that the people around me begin to cheer and file towards the dance floor.

Ignoring the grumbling of my stomach, I order a tequila, while my weak hearted friend stays at my side. "You know, You can talk to me about anything, right?" I notice the signs a second too late, she's never going to shut up now.

I side eye her in response. "Get to the point, Hana."

Her shoulders drop, "Seb told me you asked him to sponsor you for the La Haute Ball." Of course he did, the little shit couldn't keep his mouth shut for jack shit.

"And...?" I offer dryly, facing away from the bar and towards the deck.

"He also told me you agreed to let him be your escort..."

I raise a brow, "So?"

"So, what about your husband?" The last word slips from her posh accent with so much ease, it feels like large pale hands had wormed their way into my chest and began to hold me down.

When she says it, it's different. Makes it feel real.

"He's not my husband." I grit out, sick of everyone calling him that.

"Okay..." She sighs, "What about the terrifying man you're going to be married to? I don't suppose he's alright with another man publicly escorting you into a high society ball."

He's isn't. In fact he'd remained so eerily quiet yesterday when he'd overheard Seb's request, I knew nothing good would come from it.