The Judge's Contract Bride

Chapter 5

I storm into the bar like I'm running from a fire.

The space is warm and dim, all dark wood and amber lighting. It smells of all form of alcohol and was the kind of place where people come to forget who they're supposed to be.

"Tequila," I tell the bartender, my voice sharp. "The strongest one you have, just keep them coming."

He nods without comment. He's seen plenty of women like me with broken hearts and anger that tastes like metal. I slide onto a barstool and don't bother looking around. I don't care who's watching. I don't care about anything anymore.

My phone buzzes.

Drake.

I watch the screen light up with his name and feel something twist in my chest. Not love. Not anymore. Just rage. Pure, crystalline rage.

I silence the call.

He tries again thirty seconds later.

I silence it again.

The tequila arrives, and I drink like it's water. Like it can wash away the images that keep flashing through my mind—Drake's body tangled with strangers, his hands on other women, his lies stacked on top of each other like a house of cards finally collapsing. The look on everyone's faces when they saw those photographs scattered across that marble floor.

The humiliation.

Another call. Drake again. I don't even look at this one. I just press the button and turn my attention to my drink, watching the way the light catches the liquid like something precious.

It's not precious. Nothing about tonight is precious.

I'm on my fourth tequila when I feel eyes on me. Not the casual glance of a stranger, but actual attention that makes the hair on your neck stand up.

I don't look up immediately. I know who it is before I see him. Some part of me recognizes his presence the way you recognize the shift in air pressure before a storm.

"I don't think we've officially met." His voice is calm.

I turn to look at him, and it's Marco. Still in his suit from the hearing, though his jacket is gone and his shirt is open at the collar. His gray eyes are studying me with something that might be concern or might be curiosity. It's hard to tell with him.

"And I don't think I care," I say flatly.

Something that might be amusement crosses his face. "Fair enough."

He settles onto the barstool next to me, and instead of the flirtation I might have expected, he just orders a drink and waits.

After a while, I start talking.

I don't mean to. The words just spill out like poison, like I need to purge myself of them or I'll explode. I tell him about Drake. About the photographs. About how I thought I knew him and it turns out I didn't know him at all.

"The hearing," Marco says, and his voice has changed. It's sharper. "You mean Drake Mercer?"

"Unfortunately," I say, and I see something flicker across his face. Something I don't have the emotional capacity to interpret right now.

"I sold my motorcycle for him," I hear myself say. "I gave up something I loved because I thought it didn't fit the wife I was supposed to become. And for what? For him to humiliate me at my own bachelorette party?"

"You didn't know," Marco says quietly.

"I should have known. I did know, somewhere deep down. I think I've known for a while." I take another drink. "I just didn't want to see it."

We sit in silence for a while after that. The bar moves around us with people laughing, the clinking of glasses, the low rumble of music. But in our little corner, it's just quiet.

Eventually, Marco says, "Come dance with me."

"No."

"It's not a question."

"I said no."

But after another drink, after my phone buzzes with Drake's name one more time and I feel that familiar spike of rage, I find myself saying yes. I find myself letting Marco pull me toward the small dance floor in the corner.

The music is slow and sensual, something that wraps around you like smoke. Marco's hand settles on the small of my back, and he pulls me closer—not aggressively, just enough to keep me steady. We move together, and for a moment, I'm lost in the rhythm.

And then I realize something.

"I've seen you before," I whisper.

"In court," he says.

"Not there."

He's quiet for a moment. "Tell me."

But I don't answer. I can't explain the dreams, the gray eyes, the way my subconscious knew him before my conscious mind did. So instead, I do something reckless.

I kiss him.

It's brief—just a press of my mouth against his before he pulls back. His breathing is heavier, but his expression is controlled.

"You're drunk," he says.

"I'm furious," I correct.

"That's not the same thing."

"Tonight it is."

He doesn't argue. But he also doesn't kiss me again. Instead, he takes my hand and leads me back to the bar, where he settles my tab.

Outside, the night air is cold and sharp. It clears my head slightly, brings some reality back into focus. Marco walks me toward the curb, and I realize he's making sure I get home safely.

My phone buzzes again.

Drake.

I stare at the screen—his name glowing like a threat. All the hurt, all the anger, all the humiliation crystallizes into a single moment of clarity. I watch his name light up the darkness, and without letting myself think about it, I power the phone off.

The screen goes black.

My hand moves to my engagement ring—the diamond that represents the future I no longer want. Marco watches but doesn't stop me.

For a moment, I hold it in my palm. It's heavier than you'd expect something so small to be. Heavy with promises I never wanted to keep. Heavy with the weight of all the versions of myself I was supposed to become.

I drop it onto the pavement.

"You might regret that tomorrow," Marco says quietly.

"The ring or the man?"

He says nothing.

I turn to face him. "Do you want me, Marco?"

He doesn't answer. Just watches me with those gray eyes, his jaw tight.

"Do you?" I push, stepping closer.

"Ariana—"

"It's a simple question."

He still doesn't answer, but something in his expression shifts.

I start to walk away, deciding that's my answer, that I've crossed some line and need to put distance between us. But before I can take more than a step, his hand closes tight around my wrist.

Then he says, "Get in the car, Ariana."