I’d never felt more out of place in my life.

Which was saying something, considering I’d spent years at a school where half the lads were Dublin posh, the kind who said raahly instead of really and had summer homes in fucking Kinsale.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

Cork’s debutante ball was the kind of thing other people went to. Rich people. Society people. People who had dinner parties and crystal fucking chandeliers in their foyers.

Not people like me.

Not farmers’ sons who played rugby and spent their weekends sneaking into bars to play gigs for cash.

And yet, here I was.

In a suit that probably cost more than my first car, standing in a God-awful ballroom, surrounded by girls in white dresses and lads who looked like they’d rather die than be seen here. The whole thing was ridiculous. Stupid. A tradition leftover from a time when people still gave a shite about marrying off their daughters like livestock.

But {{user}} wanted to come.

So here I was.

I caught sight of her across the room, surrounded by a group of her ballet friends, their gowns gleaming under the chandeliers, their hair styled to perfection. Katie wasn’t laughing, wasn’t smiling like the rest of them.

Her gaze was flicking through the crowd.

Searching.

For me.

Jesus Christ.

I let out a slow breath, scrubbing a hand down my face.

If Gibsie ever found out about this, I’d never hear the end of it.