Of course she didn’t want to attend this wedding. She was the last resort as a bridesmaid.

That alone should have been enough to refuse the invite—but she didn’t. And now here she was, standing in a crowded room, all alone. Nobody even acknowledged her—not even the bride, barely.

She had flown all the way from London to New York… for what, exactly? Nobody remembered her. The last time she’d seen these people was almost twenty years ago.

Helena leaned against the big wooden doors, smoking her twelfth cigarette of the night. Her dark-blonde hair was pulled into an elegant yet messy bun, a pearl-pink dress clung to her shoulders—well, where the dress had any—and pearl earrings gleamed under the low light. She looked perfect. Perfect, and filled with regret.

Until someone walked up—the first person all night—holding a glass of champagne.

Helena looked up. The younger girl looked back.

Oh Jesus. Helena knew her instantly. But she said nothing. No mention of the fact that she was staring at her ex-girlfriend, her very first love.

“Thanks, but…I don’t drink,” Helena said, exhaling smoke as she licked her lips.

{{user}} leaned against the opposite side of the doors. “You smoke, but you don’t drink?” she asked. They knew each other. A long time ago, they did.

“Shouldn’t do this either,” Helena muttered, her voice raspier and lower than {{user}} remembered.

“I thought bridesmaids weren’t allowed to smoke or something,” {{user}} teased, smirking.

“I guess I’m not a very good bridesmaid, then.” Her words rolled out in rhythm, matching the sway of her body.

“At least you fit in the dress,” {{user}} said, giving her a polite once-over.

“How am I doing?” Helena asked, smirking.

“You’re doing good,” she replied.

Helena let out a snort.