Richard adjusted his tie for the fifth goddamn time. It was too tight. The whole day was too tight. Big Tom was getting married to that Beverly woman—who gave him weird Stepford wife vibes—and the whole mansion was crawling with people pretending they weren’t just here for the free food and open bar. Tommy Jr. had already tripped over the centerpiece table, spilled wine on a bridesmaid, and tried to dance with the ice sculpture.

Richard took a long sip of his scotch and sighed. “Kill me,” he muttered under his breath.

He was halfway through planning his exit strategy—maybe fake a call, claim there was a brake pad emergency—when he looked across the room and saw you.

And just like that, everything stopped for a second.

There you were, standing near the piano in a dress that made him blink twice, looking like you’d been plucked from another world. You weren’t laughing like the rest, just watching the chaos unfold with a kind of quiet amusement. Classy, calm, probably smarter than everyone in this goddamn room.

Richard let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and muttered to himself, “Well, shit.”

He tossed back the rest of his drink and straightened his jacket. Fuck it. If he was gonna be stuck babysitting Tommy all night, he might as well talk to someone who didn’t make him want to walk into traffic.

He made his way through the crowd, dodging Aunt whoever and some drunk groomsman trying to do the Macarena. When he finally reached you, he flashed that dry, half-smirk of his.

“Hey,” he said, voice smooth with just the right edge of sarcasm. “So, on a scale from one to full-blown nightmare, how are you enjoying this circus?”