Page 4 of Stolen Vows

The mention of our brothers turns my stomach like I ate week-old burritos. Our older brothers are everything Flora and I are not:men. I’ve lost count of all the arguments I’ve overheard throughout the years between my parents and my brothers. Our family home is extravagant and wonderful in a lot of ways, but privacy is not one of them.

“Bash?” My head spins with what that means. Is he stepping into the head of the family role already? And what does that mean for me?

“Who do you think sent me here?” she mutters, eying a couple of people making out in the shadowed corner of the front porch.

“Mom.” It’s the most obvious answer.

Her top lip curls upward as she surveys the wide porch and all the people on it. “I don’t even understand why you’d want to drink shitty beer in this disgusting frat house. Giovanni has a place on the Upper East Side with a private bartender and a fully stocked wine cellar. You could be drinking Cristal instead of . . . whatever this is.”

Her self-righteousness seeps from every pore, dripping from every word that falls from her mouth. But I’m not the same person I was a year ago. Two semesters at Sterling University have taught me more than my entire life in Winthrop Harbor.

Like how freedom tastes better than champagne. How I’d rather drink lukewarm beer with people who don’t care about last names than sip expensive wine with people who only see me as a chess piece.

I tilt my chin up, letting defiance settle in my bones. “Maybe you should be the one marrying Giovanni instead.”

The words come out sharper than I intended, laced with more attitude than I’ve ever dared to use with her before.

It feels strange, like wearing an oversized coat that doesn’t quite fit—the weight of it unfamiliar, the shape of it awkward, but still mine.

Florence stops in her tracks. Her fingers twitch in mine, but for once, she doesn’t pull me back.

Instead, I tighten my grip and pull her forward.

We cross the threshold into the baseball house—which, yeah, okay, does kind of look like a frat house. But not like the ones my brothers lived in.

Theirs were extravagant, sprawling brownstones with private chefs and furniture that cost more than tuition. This place? This is beer-soaked carpets, sagging leather couches, and a neon sign buzzing in the kitchen.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I belong.

“What did you say?” she hisses, her hair brushing my shoulder as she steps closer.

I shuffle a few steps to the left, away from the doorway, my eyes darting around, trying to take it all in. For as big a game as I talked, I’ve never actually been to a party like this before. I spent the last nine months reveling in the freedom of being two thousand miles away from my parents.

I’m not a complete novice though. I’ve been to plenty of parties—most filled with my parents’ friends or their kids. A few underground club parties with my cousin, but nothing like this.

This feels like a scene plucked straight out of every daydream I’ve ever had in high school.

I roll my lips inward, rising onto the balls of my feet as I scan the room. A folding table is set up in front of the windows, a guy in headphones standing behind it, red Solo cup raised in the air as he nods to the beat. People move in a crush of bodies to the music, the furniture shoved against the walls to make space. At the far end of a massive dining table, at least twenty people are gathered, tossing ping-pong balls into red cups, their cheers rising above the music.

My pulse kicks up.

Oh, I’m definitely doing that. A couple of fingers ofshitty beer, as Florence calls it, will be worth it for the memory of playing my first game of beer pong.

“Hello?” Florence steps in front of me, blocking my view. She waves her hand in my face with that condescending flick of her wrist I’ve always hated.

“What?” I arch a brow, raising my voice to be heard over the music.

“What’s going on with you? Why are you talking like you suddenly don’t want to marry Giovanni?” Florence’s perfect brows knit together as she searches my face.

I slide my hand free from hers, my gaze drifting past her in search of the drink table. The subject of my alleged fiancé is not something I ever really care to talk about. And I definitely don’t want to bring him up now—not when there are far more interesting things happening around me.

The bass thrums in my chest, my head nodding to the beat without conscious thought. Movement spills across the room, bodies pressing close, laughing, swaying, heat radiating from their skin like energy crackling in the air. Inhibitions are shed like second skins, left behind in the dim light, pooling at their feet.

Florence is still talking, her voice a thread of noise in my ear, but the throng of dancers calls to me like a siren song.

I lean toward her, my gaze never straying from the three people in the middle of the floor. A girl sandwiched between two guys, their hips rolling and dipping together. It’s kind of mesmerizing.

Something in my lower stomach clenches at the sight. I’m no stranger to dancing, but this is more than that. There’s possessiveness in the way his hand curls around her hip and the way her arm curls around the other guy’s neck.

---