CHAPTER 22: DRUNK

Alexia’s POV

What can I say? Three words: I am stuffed. And no, not in the "I ate too much junk food and regret it" kind of way. Oh no. This was the best food ever.

The steak? Cooked to perfection. The wine? Don’t even get me started. I felt like a freaking queen sipping on liquid gold, and let me tell you, I deserved every damn drop. Yeah, apart from the tiny little hiccup that I’m marrying a man who might have killed me in a past life (minor detail, right?), I could totally get used to this life of warm, delicious meals and ridiculously overpriced wine.

Damn, it’s been forever since I’ve tasted something so decadent. Who am I kidding? It’s not like I’ve ever enjoyed something this good in my life. Growing up, "fine dining" was whatever Mom could scrape together on the days she wasn’t too drunk to bother. As for wine, the closest I’ve come to it was boxed and probably expired. This? This was a revelation.

It’s almost cruel, isn’t it? That life throws you crumbs for years, lets you struggle, stumble, scrape by—and then, out of nowhere, it hands you a slice of heaven. Of course, there’s a catch. Because there’s always a catch.

And mine? Oh, just the little fact that my fiancé—yep, you heard that right—is the cold, brooding CEO sitting across from me, currently plotting God knows what behind those unreadable eyes of his. A man who might be the literal bane of my existence. Or worse, my murderer in this life like he might have been in the other timeline.

But hey, let’s not focus on that right now.

Right now, I’m enjoying the hell out of this truffle risotto and basking in the glory of the world’s most perfectly seared filet mignon. Who knew heaven was served on fine china?

I glance at the waiter as he pours another glass of wine, and I swear, his expression practically screams, How did she sneak in here?

Honey, you don’t have to say it; I know I look like I just crawled out of bed after a five-day Netflix binge. My hoodie and sweatpants combo isn’t exactly Couture Digest material, but you know what? It doesn’t matter. Because for the first time in ages, I feel like I belong.

Scratch that—I own this place.

I take another sip of the wine, letting it roll over my tongue. Oh yeah, this is dangerous. Not just the drink, but the whole vibe of this moment. The soft clinking of glasses, the distant hum of conversation, the glittering chandeliers overhead—it’s like something out of a movie. A life I could never afford but now find myself smack in the middle of.

And you know what? I’m starting to think I could get used to it.

Sure, the whole "marriage to Mr. Almond Milk" situation is a little sketchy. Fine, a lot sketchy. But as far as trade-offs go, it’s not the worst deal I’ve made.

So, here’s to me. The girl in the waitress apron, crashing a world she was never meant to enter. Cheers, darling. Let’s see how long it takes for this fairytale to fall apart.

Okay, I get it—I’m pretty. But the way he was staring? That was just plain rude. Like, excuse me, do you mind? Ever heard of subtlety? If you’re going to bore holes into me with your intense gaze, at least pretend to check your phone or something.

Not that I wasn’t holding my own, mind you. Thank the heavens I hadn’t forgotten my table manners. Who could? When you’ve spent an entire childhood being drilled on etiquette and curtsies like you’re auditioning for a royal court, it sticks. Not that I was ever going to thank anyone for that particular misery—let’s just say those were the worst years of my former life and leave it at that. But hey, silver lining: now I could sit at a table with the snootiest of the snooty and not embarrass myself.

Honestly, though, I wasn’t even thinking about that at the moment. Nope, I was far too engrossed in the fact that I was eating food that felt like it was handcrafted by angels. Each bite was a symphony, a celebration, a festival for my taste buds. It was the kind of meal that could make you forget all your troubles, your worries, and—oh, right—that one tiny, insignificant detail...

The wine wasn’t non-alcoholic.

Yeah, you’d think I’d catch that. I mean, this was no boxed wine situation—it was the real deal. Fancy, aged, probably worth more than my whole life expenses. But no, I was too busy living my best life, sipping glass after glass like it was water. And let’s be honest, too much of anything—no matter how divine—is dangerous.

One moment I’m savoring the heady richness of Château Margaux, and the next, I’m starting to feel just a little

too warm. My head feels lighter, my limbs a little looser. And then it hits me: oh, crap.

I glance at the glass in my hand like it’s betrayed me. How many glasses have I had? Three? Four? More? I don’t even remember.

Meanwhile, Mr. Brooding CEO is still staring, and I can’t decide if he’s amused, annoyed, or quietly plotting my demise. Probably all three.

But you know what? I don’t care. Because in this moment—wine, food, and all—I feel... invincible. Which, let’s face it, is a terrible combination.

I looked at him—cold, brooding, and entirely too self-assured. His piercing eyes flicked between my face and the half glass of wine still sitting in front of me. His expression? Oh, it was screaming, Don’t even think about it.

But you know what? If I can read his expression that clearly, it means I’m not that drunk. Right?

And let’s be real here—what’s stopping me? It’s not like this is a guaranteed forever gig. Sure, I’ll be married to him in a few days, and yeah, the guy is loaded, but who’s to say he won’t treat me like Cinderella was treated by her evil stepmother? Except, let’s face it, Cinderella’s stepmother couldn’t hold a candle to his looks. Those cheekbones alone could cut glass.

His attitude and temperament, though? That’s a different story. Dominant, asshole, jerk. All caps, bold, and underlined. This guy practically invented the term.

And no, it’s not jealousy driving his behavior like the stepmother in the fairy tale. Oh, no. Mr. Cold-and-Dominant here doesn’t need something as petty as jealousy. He’s just a jerk for the sport of it. Add in the faint possibility that he’s also a murderer, and yeah—who needs fairytale villains when I’ve got the real deal sitting across from me?

This is it. Overthinking is officially going to be the death of me.

Screw it. Decision made. I pick up the glass and knock back the wine in one unladylike gulp. Not exactly table etiquette 101, but hey, desperate times.

The second the glass leaves my lips, I feel it. His gaze burns into me like laser beams. His eyes widen, darken, and narrow all at once. Oh, he’s furious. I might as well have slapped him across the face with a steak knife.

Great. Where the hell is my prince charming? He’s supposed to swoop in and save me, right? Isn’t that how the story goes? Because at this rate, I’m about five seconds away from my future husband killing me right here in this overpriced restaurant.

Yeah, I think this is where Cinderella dies.