“He touches your thigh, jokes about your underwear, brushes your chest—and you call it ‘drunk’? My wife favors another man in front of me, and I’m the petty one?”
The guests, uncomfortable, tried to laugh it off.
“Don’t argue on your wedding night.”
“Dorian just likes to joke—he and Elara are like sisters, you know. Don’t take it seriously.”
“Stop arguing, stop arguing. Let’s just go home already,” someone muttered, trying to defuse the tension.
Home? Fuck that. Dorian had a man’s body but still dared to call himself Elara’s “sister”?
Elara shoved me, seizing the moment.
“Go outside and calm down! Don’t embarrass yourself here!”
I stood on the balcony for a long time. The night wind bit at my skin, but not as sharply as the laughter that spilled from inside. Elara’s voice, Dorian’s voice—mingling, light, intimate. Each burst of laughter stabbed into my chest.
When I finally returned to the bedroom, Elara was already out of the shower, hair damp, slipping under the covers.
She glanced at me casually.
“Dorian’s sleeping here tonight. He’s drunk, and it’s hard to get a taxi.”
My gaze fell on his jacket tossed carelessly on our sofa. I couldn’t help the bitter laugh that escaped.