Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 99917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Lee has already made himself comfortable, his tux jacket open over a white dress shirt he’s only bothered to button halfway up his chest. His boots sit abandoned on the grass beside the blanket, and he’s stretched out with his bare feet tucked under the edge of the fabric. His gray eyes are bright with mischief, and his unkempt brown hair looks like he ran his fingers through it—which he probably did. Even dressed up, he manages to look like he just rolled out of bed, but somehow it works on him.
Salem perches gracefully on his lap, her burgundy gown a rich contrast to his white shirt. Her brown hair is pulled back in a tight, severe bun that emphasizes the elegant line of her neck, and she’s wearing matching burgundy gloves that button at her wrists like she’s dressed for some grand opera. Her brown eyes are soft as she looks down at Lee, and there’s something intimate about the way she adjusts his collar without even thinking about it.
We walk up together—Lilian between Arson and me, all three of us in black like we’re attending the world’s most elegant funeral. Maybe we are, in a way. I don’t know... I’m on a shit ton of painkillers, and everything seems fun right now.
“Welcome to the wake,” Drew says with that crooked smile of his, gesturing grandly at the spread behind him. “Figured we should send off the old girl in style.”
I look at the ruins of the Mill House, at the place that held so many memories—good and terrible both. The skeleton of the building looms behind us like a monument to everything we’ve lost and survived. “You’re not going to rebuild?”
Drew shakes his head, something resolute settling in his expression. “Nah. That place became something twisted. A monument to corruption and secrets and all the ways power can poison people. Better to let it burn and start fresh somewhere else.”
We settle onto the blankets, the fabric soft and warm beneath us. Someone—Drew, probably—has thought of everything. Small cushions are scattered around for comfort, and the blankets themselves are thick enough that we’re not feeling every bump and root in the ground. I find myself between Lilian and Bel, with Arson settling on Lilian’s other side like we’re unconsciously forming our own little protective circle.
Drew pops the first champagne bottle with theatrical flair, the cork flying off into the gathering dusk with a satisfying pop. The sound makes Salem jump slightly, and Lee laughs, his arm tightening around her waist. The champagne foams over the rim of the bottle, and Drew catches it expertly in one of the crystal glasses.
“Christ, Marshall,” Sebastian says, accepting a glass. “When you decide to do something, you don’t mess around.”
“Go big or go home,” Drew replies, pouring glass after glass with practiced ease. “Besides, we deserved something beautiful after all the ugly.”
The bubbles tickle my nose as I take my first sip, and the champagne is better than anything I’ve ever tasted—crisp and clean with just a hint of sweetness. For the first time in weeks, I feel something like peace settling in my chest.
Lilian reaches for one of the charcuterie boards, loading a small plate with cheese and grapes. Her movements are graceful, deliberate, and I watch the way the candlelight plays across her face as she concentrates on arranging the food just so. When she offers me a bite of aged brie on a water cracker, her fingers brush mine, and the contact sends warmth shooting up my arm.
“This is incredible,” Ely says, gesturing at the spread around us. “How did you even organize all of this?”
Drew shrugs, but there’s pride in his expression. “Called in a few favors. Figured if we were going to say goodbye to this place, we should do it right.” He takes a sip of champagne and looks back at the burned shell of the house. “It deserved better than just letting it rot.”
“It held a lot of memories,” Bel says softly, following his gaze. Her voice carries that wistful quality it gets when she’s thinking about the past. “Good ones and bad ones.”
“More good than bad, I think,” Lee adds, surprising us all.
He’s usually the first one to crack a joke when things get serious, but tonight, his gray eyes hold something thoughtful.
Salem shifts on his lap, adjusting the skirt of her burgundy dress. “It brought us together,” she says simply. “That has to count for something.”
The conversation flows easier than it has in months as we eat and drink and watch the sun sink lower in the sky. We talk about small things—the way the champagne bubbles feel on our tongues, how ridiculously formal we all look sitting on blankets in the grass, whether the LED candles will last all night. Normal things. Human things. The kind of conversations we might have had all along if we hadn’t been drowning in secrets and lies and the weight of everything we were trying to survive.