The Judge's Contract Bride

Chapter 4

Finally it's my bachelorette party,we are partying in the club and the bass is so heavy I can feel it in my chest. Paula has rented out the VIP section, and it's packed with my friends and women who've known me since forever

I'm three cosmopolitans in, and everything feels perfect.

"Come on!" Paula grabs my hand and pulls me toward the dance floor. "We're celebrating you!"

I follow her willingly, and we start moving together, our bodies finding the rhythm of the music. The lights catch the sequins on Paula's dress, making her sparkle like a disco ball. I'm wearing a black dress that's probably too short for a bride-to-be, but I don't care.

My other friends circle around us—Marie, Jessica, Keisha. We're laughing, screaming the lyrics to the songs, hands in the air. It's pure joy. Pure freedom. The kind of night that feels like a last hurrah before adulthood fully takes hold.

"Wait, wait, wait!" Paula is suddenly tugging at my arm, a devilish smile on her face. "I have a surprise for you."

"Paula, no." I already know that look. It's the look she gets before she does something absolutely insane.

"Paula, yes." She's signaling to someone near the stage, and then the DJ's voice booms over the music.

"Ladies, let's give a warm welcome to our special guest tonight!"

The crowd erupts, and I immediately grab Paula's arm. "What did you do?"

"Just wait."

A man walks onto the stage, and he is... a lot. Tall, muscular, with the kind of abs that look photoshopped. He's wearing leather pants and nothing else, and the moment he starts moving, the entire VIP section loses its mind.

"Oh my God!" Jessica is screaming. "Look at him!"

"Take it off!" Marie is chanting, and suddenly everyone is joining in. "Take it off! Take it off!"

I'm laughing so hard I can barely breathe. This is so Paula.

The stripper is dancing toward our section now, and he's making eye contact with me—the bride. He's flexing, turning, moving in ways that are clearly designed to make me uncomfortable. But instead, I just think it's hilarious.

"Paula, you're insane!" I shout over the music.

"I know!" she shouts back, grinning.

Then he does it. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of his leather pants and slowly, deliberately, pulls them down. He's completely naked. The girls are screaming, and I'm covering my face because I'm laughing too hard to breathe.

"Oh my God, did you see his abs?!" Paula is practically vibrating with excitement. "Ariana, look! Look at him!"

"I'm looking! I'm looking!" I'm still laughing. "Paula, you need serious help."

"Well, it's your surprise, Ariana. It's your bachelorette gift."

"No, Paula. Absolutely not."

"Come on!" She's already grabbing my hand again, pulling me toward the private room in the back. "This is paid for. Take him to the room. Have some fun. You're getting married in three days. Live a little!"

"No way. I can't do that."

"Why not? Drake would never find out. Come on, loosen up, girl. Why not enjoy it?"

I'm shaking my head, but I'm still laughing. "No. You paid for him, so you do it. Go have fun with your stripper."

"Are you serious?"

"Completely serious." I give her a gentle push toward him. "Go. Before I change my mind and start regretting this whole thing."

Paula grins and doesn't need to be told twice. She saunters toward the private room with the stripper, and I turn back to the dance floor with the other girls.

"Did Paula really just—" Jessica starts, but I'm already nodding.

"She absolutely did."

We laugh about it for the next hour, continuing to dance, continuing to drink. By the time Paula emerges from the private room, flushed and grinning, we're all halfway to drunk.

"Okay," Paula announces, clapping her hands together. "Gift time! Everyone to the couches!"

We migrate to the VIP seating area, and Paula starts handing out boxes. The first one is from Marie—a beautiful wrapped box tied with a silver ribbon.

I open it carefully, and the moment I see what's inside, I burst out laughing.

It's a c**t sucker.

"Marie!" I hold it up, and the entire group dissolves into hysterical laughter. "You got me a c**t sucker?"

"After a couple of years of marriage, you'll probably use that more than you use Drake," Marie says with a wink.

The next gift is from Jessica—a silk robe. Then another from Keisha—champagne flutes. They're all thoughtful, all sweet, all designed to celebrate this moment in my life.

"Okay, okay," Paula says, her eyes gleaming with mischief again. "You have one more gift. But I have to be honest,I don't know who it's from."

"What do you mean you don't know who it's from?" I ask.

"It just arrived at the venue with a note that said 'for the bride.' No name. Total mystery."

She hands me a box—a smaller one, wrapped in plain brown paper but omething about it feels off.There was no sender's name.

No card or handwriting.

Just my name printed neatly across the package.

"Open it!" Jessica urges.

I tear away the paper.

Inside the box are photographs.

At first, my brain doesn't process what I'm seeing. At first I thought I was looking at strangers.

Then I saw the watch I'd bought Drake for our anniversary.

My stomach dropped.

Because the naked man in the photographs was my fiancé. Drake with multiple women.

The box falls from my hands and the pictures scatter across the white marble floor like toxic snow. And suddenly, everyone can see what I see. Drake with a blonde woman. Drake with a brunette. Drake with a redhead. Drake with at least five different women in various states of undress, various positions, various levels of intimacy.

"Oh my God," Marie whispers.

"Ariana—" Paula steps toward me with her hand reaching out.

"Don't." My voice comes out sharp, broken. "Don't touch me."

"Ariana, we don't know what—"

"Everyone. Stay. Away." I'm standing up now, my vision spinning, my body shaking with something that's part rage and part absolute devastation. "I need to... I need air."

I don't wait for them to respond. I push through the crowd, ignoring their calls, ignoring Paula's attempts to follow me. I'm moving on autopilot, my phone already in my hand, already dialing Drake's number.

It rings but later goes straight to voicemail.

I try again. And again. And again.

"You've reached Drake Mercer. Please leave a message."

I'm outside the club now, the cold night air hitting my skin like a slap. The street is blurry through my tears, but I can see a cab waiting at the curb. I stumble toward it, my legs unsteady, my heart in pieces.

"Where to?" the driver asks as I collapse into the back seat.

"Anywhere," I say, my voice hollow. "Any bar. Somewhere with good alcohol."

"You okay, miss?"

"I'm not okay and I don't think I will ever be okay again." I snapped at the driver.