Page 28 of Untamed

Because maybe Matteo’s right about one thing. One night where I’m not drowning in my grief might actually do me some good. One night where the weight pressing down on my chest lessens just enough to let me breathe.

Anything that keeps my mind distracted right now, anything that stops the endless, aching loop in my head is very much needed.

Even if it’s fake...even if it’s for one night.

I’ll take it.

The party is already in full swing by the time I make it downstairs.

The manor doesn’t even look like the same place anymore. Lights are strung from the balconies, tables are overflowing with food and free-flowing champagne, and the music thuds so hard it vibrates through the floors. There are people everywhere, too many faces I don’t recognise, too many smiles stretched a little too tight.

Everyone is dressed to impress, draped in designer suits and glittering dresses, diamonds catching the light in sharp little flashes.

And me? I stand at the edge of it all, tucked into a sleek black dressMatteo hadRosapick out for me, feeling like I’ve mistakenly wandered into the wrong life.

No one notices me at first. Or maybe they do and just don’t know what to say. I’m the outsider. The broken thing haunting the party like a ghost.

God, Jordyn, enough. You’re not the main character in a melodrama. You’re nineteen. Just… be normal. Or at least fake it better than this.

I move without thinking, drifting toward the bar, desperate for something, anything, that might drown out the roar building inside my head. I’m two steps away from grabbing a drink when Matteo finds me.

He moves through the crowd like gravity bends for him—effortless, magnetic, the kind of presence that makes people turn without knowing why. That easy grin, the laugh that lands just a little too loud, the way people call out to him like he’s the headline act. And tonight, he is. Twenty-one, golden boy, party royalty. All charm, all spotlight. Like the world showed up just to orbit him.

When he reaches me, he doesn’t waste a second. He loops an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his orbit like gravity.

“There she is,” Matteo says, his voice warm and teasing in my ear. “My favourite little dimples.”

I let him guide me through the chaos, too tired and too numb to protest. Champagne glasses clink around us. Laughter rings too loudly. The sharp scent of expensive cologne and cigarette smoke clings to the heavy summer air.

Matteo plucks two flutes of champagne from a passing tray and shoves one into my hand.

“Drink,” he says, flashing a grin. “Smile. Pretend you’re having the time of your life and you might actually have fun, little one.”

I force something close to a smile, lift the glass to my lips, and take a long sip.

The champagne is sharp and cold, fizzing on my tongue like it’s trying to scrub something clean inside me. It doesn’t help. Nothing ever bloody does.

I glance up at the sky, where the stars are barely visible past the floodlights and haze, and wonder if my parents can see me from wherever they are now. If they would even recognise me anymore.

Another sip. And then another. Letting the bubbles numb the jagged edges of everything. Letting the music and the lights and the people blur into a faraway hum.

Maybe Matteo’s right. Maybe one night of pretending isn’t the worst thing in the world.

Before I know it, he’s steering me toward a sharply dressed group gathered near the bar, their laughter louder and looser than the rest.

“Ragazzi,” Matteo calls out, raising his glass. “Meet Jordyn Windslow.”

I stiffen slightly, every instinct screaming at me to disappear, but Matteo just keeps grinning like this is the most natural thing in the world. He pauses for effect, flashing a look at me out of the corner of his eye.

“Jordyn is my...” He trails off, tilting his head, pretending to think hard about it. “Now that my Dad and your sister are married, I suppose that makes you my Zia, right?” When I blink at him, confused, he elaborates with a smirk. “My auntie.”

The group bursts into laughter, some of it genuine, some of it the kind that feels like knives under my skin.

“Cristo, Matteo,” one of the guys chokes out between laughs, “Solo tu potresti avere una zia figa più giovane di te.” I don’t understand what he says, but whatever it is has someone else low whistling while another lifts a lazy toast in my direction.

Matteo just laughs it off, clinking his glass against mine before draining it in one gulp, like he hasn’t just dragged me into a spotlight I didn’t want.

I force a tight smile, lifting my champagne flute like I’m part of the joke. Like it doesn’t matter. Like I’m not standing here feeling like the weird extra piece nobody really knows where to fit.

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