Chapter 4

The reception was in full swing, and the string quartet had finally given way to a DJ who looked like he’d walked in from a nightclub rather than a wedding. Guests buzzed with champagne-fueled energy, the dance floor flickering with colored lights. Somewhere between the cake being cut and Aunt Lydia doing a tipsy version of the electric slide, something shifted in the air. It wasn’t just the bass drop from the speakers. It was destiny, Julian would later claim. A cruel, glitter-covered, bass-thumping twist of fate.

He had almost made it through the night.

Almost.

Julian was content to hover by the bar, sipping a soda with the kind of intensity usually reserved for people watching the stock market crash. He’d survived the church, the toast, the overlong photo session where he was made to stand next to Alexander for what felt like a week. He hadn’t punched anyone. Hadn’t cried. Hadn’t even broken his mother’s heels in a passive aggressive tantrum. He was proud of himself. Genuinely.

Then the DJ made the announcement.

"Alright, folks! It’s time for our dance showdown! We want to see who’s got the moves! Bride’s side versus groom’s side, battle style!"

Julian froze mid-sip.

No.

He turned, searching for an escape route, but the guests were already cheering. The floor cleared. Someone was dragging chairs back. His mother clapped gleefully as if this wasn’t a complete and utter social death sentence in motion.

“I nominate Julian!” someone yelled. He would never find out who. Probably some cousin. A betrayer.

He barely had time to protest before hands were on his back, pushing him forward. He stumbled onto the dance floor like a sacrificial lamb. And there, of course, was Alexander. Standing at the other end, already unbuttoning his blazer, smirking like the smug final boss of every teenage romcom.

Julian whispered to the universe, “If you love me, strike me down.”

Nothing happened. Typical.

The crowd circled them like it was a schoolyard brawl. The DJ leaned into the mic.

“Let’s hear it for our contenders. Representing the bride’s side, Julian. Representing the groom’s, Alexander.”

Applause thundered.

Julian adjusted his sleeves like a man about to make a horrible decision.

The music started, something upbeat, dramatic, and absolutely not made for someone who once got winded chasing his cat around the living room.

Julian started moving. Badly.

It wasn’t his fault. His dancing style could best be described as a caffeinated ostrich with a mild cramp. He flailed. He snapped. He possibly pulled something in his back. He did The Worm, poorly. He lost a shoe.

And the crowd loved it. They loved it.

Because it was so bad, it became performance art.

Then came Alexander’s turn.

Julian retreated, panting, slick with sweat, his dignity barely clinging to his body like his dress shirt. Alexander stepped in, rolled up his sleeves, and unleashed hell.

It was effortless. Smooth. A cross between a Broadway musical and a fashion commercial. He twirled. He dipped. He moonwalked. Someone actually screamed.

Julian stood to the side, seething.

Even his mother was clapping for him. Clapping for Alexander.

When Alexander spun into his final move, a drop split that defied physics and decorum, the crowd exploded. People threw napkins. Someone started chanting his name. Champagne was spilled.

Julian had had enough.

He stormed forward, grabbed a nearby glass of water from a waiter’s tray, and without a single ounce of hesitation, threw it at Alexander.

Gasps echoed. Time froze.

Water splashed across Alexander’s chest and face, soaking through his dress shirt, making it cling to his body like a second skin. For a moment, silence.

Then cheers.

Not the kind Julian expected.

Alexander reached up and with slow, deliberate defiance, peeled his shirt off. He tossed it to the side, tousled his wet hair, and struck a pose.

The crowd went wild. Someone screamed again. Women and men alike fanned themselves. Napkins rained down like confetti.

Julian wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

Alexander was now shirtless, smug, and drenched. And even more of a spotlight-stealing menace than before.

Julian turned on his heel and marched out of the building, humiliated beyond measure.

The music was still blaring behind him. He didn't care. He walked past guests, through the lobby, out into the cold night. His hands shook. His breath came in furious bursts.

He didn’t stop until he reached a nearby park and collapsed onto a bench. His hair was a mess. His shoe was still missing. He looked like a disaster. No, he looked like the aftermath of a failed romantic comedy.

His phone buzzed and he pulled it out without thinking, only to feel his chest tighten the moment he saw the name on the screen. A message from the devil himself.

Alexander: That’s right, run off like the coward you are. Face it, Jules, the spotlight was never yours to begin with. Get comfortable in the shadows, because I’m just getting started, and I’m not going anywhere, BROTHER.

Julian blinked at the screen, the words slicing through whatever thin film of calm he had managed to wrap around himself. He could practically hear Alexander’s voice, smooth, smug, and laced with that maddening mockery that made Julian’s blood boil.

His jaw clenched. The audacity. The absolute nerve. As if the dance-off hadn’t been enough. As if stealing the spotlight, the cheers, and even his mother’s affection wasn’t already salt in the wound.

He gripped his phone tighter, thumbs flying with venom.

Julian: Go choke on your abs.

He hit send and immediately regretted nothing. His hands were shaking. Not from fear. From rage. From embarrassment. From the slow realization that Alexander always knew how to twist the knife in just the right place.

And what was worse, he probably looked good while doing it.

Julian shoved his phone deep into his jacket pocket, like burying it would keep the humiliation from reaching him again. He leaned back against the cold park bench, heart hammering, wishing he could disappear, or punch something, or scream into the overpriced wedding cake.

But no. All he could do was sit in his sweat-soaked shirt and relive the moment Alexander dropped into that perfect, smug little split while the crowd roared like he had cured cancer.

Julian wasn’t just mad.

He was wounded. And the last person he needed rubbing it in even more, was Alexander.

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