The rehearsal dinner is a masterclass in elegant torture.
I'm seated beside Oliver at the family table. Of course I am. Because the universe looked at my suffering and thought: not quite enough, let's add proximity and expensive wine.
The restaurant is all candlelight and white linens. Soft jazz plays from hidden speakers. Everything screams romance and new beginnings while I silently scream into the void.
Oliver's thigh is approximately three inches from mine. I know this because I've measured the distance seventeen times in the last four minutes. His cologne drifts toward me—something warm and expensive that makes my traitor brain conjure memories I'm actively suppressing.
"To fate!" Mum raises her champagne glass, cheeks flushed with happiness. "And second chances! Twenty years of friendship, and look where we've ended up!"
Everyone clinks glasses. I drink deeply and try not to make eye contact with my future stepbrother.
Richard stands, clearing his throat with the emotional preparation of a man about to cry in public.
"Helen makes me happier than I ever thought possible. After Catherine left, I'd convinced myself that chapter was closed forever. But here we are, starting fresh."
His voice cracks beautifully. Mum dabs her eyes with a napkin. It's genuinely touching, and I feel momentarily guilty for being so consumed by my own crisis.
"To Helen," Richard finishes. "My best friend. My love. My second chance at everything."
More clinking. More drinking. Oliver refills my wine glass before I notice it's empty. His fingers brush mine deliberately on the stem.
I jerk my hand back like I've touched a hot stove.
"Jumpy tonight?" His voice is low, meant only for me.
"Allergies."
"To wine glasses?"
"To you."
He laughs—warm and genuine—and several relatives glance over with approving smiles. The perfect stepbrother, bonding with his new sister. How wholesome. How entirely misleading.
"So, Lottie." He turns toward me with manufactured interest. "Tell me about accounting. Spreadsheets must be absolutely fascinating."
The question sounds innocent. His eyes suggest otherwise.
"Numbers don't lie. Unlike some people."
"Harsh." He places a hand over his heart dramatically. "I'm deeply wounded."
"You'll survive. You seem resilient."
Aunt Margaret, seated across from us, beams at our exchange. "Isn't it lovely, seeing them get along so well? Almost like real siblings already!"
I force a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. "Absolutely lovely."
Oliver's hand finds my arm—a brief touch, seemingly accidental. Electricity shoots through my nervous system like I've grabbed a live wire.
"You're tense," he murmurs against my ear.
"I wonder why."
His thumb traces a small circle on my forearm before withdrawing. The spot burns for minutes afterward. I can still feel the ghost of it through the entire main course.
I try focusing on the food. The salmon is excellent. I taste nothing. My entire awareness has narrowed to Oliver's presence beside me—the way his hand moves when he speaks, the medallion resting against his chest, the infuriating confidence radiating from every pore.
I catch myself staring at the silver pendant. Again. It catches candlelight and throws tiny reflections across the tablecloth like scattered secrets.
"Like what you see?" His whisper is barely audible.
"Just contemplating theft."
"The medallion or something else entirely?"
I stab my salmon with unnecessary violence.
Mum claps her hands, drawing everyone's attention to her grand announcement.
"Now! Let's discuss the ceremony logistics! Richard and I will enter together, of course. And for the processional—"
She pauses dramatically, like she's revealing Oscar winners.
"—Oliver will escort Lottie down the aisle! Best man and maid of honor, walking together! Isn't that absolutely perfect?"
My stomach drops through the floor and continues toward the earth's molten core.
"Actually," I start, "I'm not sure that's—"
"Nonsense!" Mum waves away my protest like swatting an irritating fly. "You two are getting along wonderfully! It'll make beautiful photographs!"
I look at Oliver. He says nothing. Just smiles—slow, knowing, absolutely insufferable.
Richard nods approvingly. "It does seem fitting. The children representing family unity."
Children. If only he knew what his child did under a wine bar table.
"But I thought maybe—"
"It's settled!" Mum declares with the finality of a judge's gavel. "Oliver and Lottie, leading the way. Perfect!"
Oliver raises his glass toward me. A private toast. A silent victory lap around my dignity.
I want to flip the table and flee to Antarctica immediately.
The dinner continues for another excruciating hour. Oliver maintains his flawless performance—charming, attentive, endlessly complimentary in ways that sound innocent to everyone and devastating to me alone.
When dessert finally ends, I escape to my room like my life depends on it. Which, emotionally speaking, it absolutely does.
I lock the door and press my back against it, breathing hard.
This is fine. Everything is fine. I just need to survive four more days of pretending my future stepbrother didn't almost make me orgasm in public.
I catch my reflection in the mirror—flushed cheeks, wild eyes, the general appearance of someone rapidly losing their grip on sanity.
The problem is obvious. I'm sexually frustrated. Desperately, pathetically, consuming-my-entire-brain sexually frustrated. My body was awakened from a lifetime of numbness and then cruelly abandoned at the edge of release.
If I just have an orgasm, everything will settle. The tension will break. I'll think clearly again. Oliver will stop occupying every corner of my consciousness.
Simple solution. Execute immediately.
I strip off my dress and lie on the bed in my underwear. Close my eyes. Start with slow touches—my neck, my collarbone, lower.
My fingers trail down my stomach. I think about... nothing. A blank space. Anonymous pleasure.
Except the blank space keeps filling with green eyes.
No. Absolutely not. Think about something else. Anyone else.
My hand slips beneath my underwear. I'm already wet—embarrassingly so. My fingers find my clit, circling slowly, building friction.
I imagine a faceless stranger. Dark hair. Strong hands. Generic attractiveness.
The stranger develops Oliver's jaw.
Damn it.
I try redirecting—a celebrity, an ex, literally anyone appropriate. But my treacherous mind keeps returning to the wine bar. His fingers on my thigh. His breath hot against my neck. The way he whispered filthy promises against my skin while his hand worked between my legs.
My hips rock against my hand. The pleasure builds despite my mental resistance. Or maybe because of it. My skin flushes hot.
I remember his teeth grazing my neck. The controlled pressure of his touch. How he knew exactly where to press, how hard, how slow.
My fingers move faster. I'm close now, chasing the release he denied me. My thighs tremble against the sheets. My breath comes in sharp gasps.
"This doesn't mean anything," I whisper to the ceiling.
The ceiling doesn't believe me either.
I come with his name trapped behind my teeth—silenced but absolutely present. The orgasm crashes through me in waves, leaving me gasping and furious with myself.
I lie there afterward, staring at nothing, heart pounding against my ribs.
That solved nothing. If anything, I want him more now. The ache has only deepened.
My future stepbrother. The boy who tormented me. The man who's about to become family.
I pull a pillow over my face and scream into it.
Four more days.