“Oh, my God, Wedding Dress Girl! How the hell are you? It’s so great to see you here!” she calls out, waving at me like a long-lost friend. She spoke softly the last time we met, but now her voice pitches unnaturally high as she comes over to me.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was drunk or high. But I can’t smell any alcohol on her. And her pupils aren’t dilated. In fact, her eyes are quite sharp. They meet mine directly as if they’re trying to say something completely different from the rest of her body language.

“And look at you in this cute dress! Can I tell you something? Your boobs look great! I mean, are they even real?”

She reaches out and cups my breasts, squeezing them to check for their authenticity.

I hear a couple of audible gasps go up from the Fairgood spouses.

And Waylon comes over to pull her away.

“Go find a seat,” he says, glowering down at her.

“Sor-ry!” Persy says, making the word two distinct syllables and flapping her hand bye-bye.

I’m not sure if she’s apologizing to me or Waylon, but she does as commanded, teetering over to a couch and collapsing onto it like a party girl at the end of a long night.

But I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry at all. Because when she felt me up, I saw the thing she tucked into the cup of my strapless bra.

A note. Stephanie just slipped me a note.

“What did she say to you?” Waylon asks as soon as we retire to the room we’re supposed to be staying in for the whole weekend. It’s as impressive as the rest of the house with a large bed, painted sky ceiling, and colorful art on the wall.

But I can barely appreciate it because I can practically feel Waylon’s distrust like a cloud hanging over us.

He’s tired, I can tell. It was a long ride down here, and even before Hades passed around the bourbon, we’d been drinking off and on all day.

“What did who say to me?” I ask, immediately taking off my high heels. Partly because my feet are killing me, but mostly so I don’t have to look at him as I attempt to play innocent. “Kyra? Nitra? June?"

“What did Persy say to you?” he demands.

I hate that he calls her that just because his brother commanded it.

“You heard her,” I answer, setting the heels I pulled off next to the bed. “She said she really liked my dress and felt me up a little. It looked like she was drunk.”

It's technically not a lie. But Waylon scans his eyes over me as if he suspects I'm not telling the truth. “Okay, then strip.”

I freeze. “What?”