Chapter 7
Stella:
The champagne tower's destruction echoed through the reception hall like a crystal avalanche.
I stood frozen in the doorway, watching Noah Carter—my student, my best friend's brother, the man who'd turned my life into a minefield—dripping in expensive champagne, surrounded by shattered glass that caught the afternoon light like tiny, glittering accusations.
His eyes met mine across the wreckage.
Oh, this was beautiful.
For one blessed second, I allowed myself to savor it.
The universe had finally delivered some justice. Here was the boy who'd spent weeks needling me in class, sending smug emails, turning every interaction into a psychological chess match—reduced to a champagne-soaked disaster.
The expensive fabric clung to him like wet tissue paper, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, a piece of glass somehow lodged above his ear like the world's most pathetic accessory.
Karma, I thought with deep satisfaction, is a bitch.
The satisfaction lasted exactly as long as it took my phone to buzz in my clutch.
Zoe's name flashed on the screen.
Reality crashed back. I answered immediately, stepping out into the corridor and pulling the door shut behind me to muffle the sound of dripping champagne.
"Hey, did you find him?" Zoe's voice was tight with stress. "The photographer wants to start family photos in twenty minutes and Noah's not answering his phone."
I looked back through the glass door at Noah, still standing in the wreckage like a drowned rat.
"Found him," I said, my voice steady. "He's just... dealing with a minor setup issue. I'll send him your way in fifteen minutes."
"Setup issue? What kind of—"
"Nothing to worry about," I cut her off smoothly. "Everything's under control. Focus on your hair and makeup. I've got this."
A pause. "You're the best, Stella. Seriously."
"I know. Now go. Your stylist is probably looking for you."
I hung up and stepped back into the reception hall, already pulling up my contacts for the hotel coordinator.
I'm doing this for Zoe, I reminded myself. Not for him.
"Don't move," I said quietly, surveying the damage with clinical detachment. "Stay exactly where you are."
I picked my way carefully through the glass and grabbed a stack of white tablecloths from the service cart near the wall. I threw one at him without ceremony.
"Dry yourself off."
He caught it smoothly, despite being soaked. He peeled off the ruined jacket with a grimace, the wet fabric making an unpleasant squelching sound as he dropped it onto a nearby chair. His white dress shirt underneath was completely transparent now, clinging to every contour.
"Well," he said, dabbing at his face with deliberate slowness, "this is going better than expected. I thought you'd leave me here to explain this to Zoe myself."
The audacity. Even drenched in champagne and surrounded by destruction, he couldn't resist.
"Congratulations, Mr. Carter," I said, my voice cool and sharp. "You've successfully transformed a three-thousand-dollar champagne tower into floor debris. Quite an achievement."
"I prefer to think of it as abstract art." He gestured at the wreckage with mock seriousness. "Very avant-garde. I'm calling it 'Destruction of Expectations.'"
"How poetic." I was already typing on my phone, coordinating with the hotel staff. "Next time you want to create art, try a canvas instead of my best friend's wedding."
"I was actually trying to help." His tone was light, but there was an edge underneath. "The groomsmen were late. Zoe was stressed. I thought I'd be useful."
"And how did that work out for you?"
He looked down at his soaked shirt, then back at me with that infuriating half-smile. "Well, I got your attention. So not a complete failure."
My jaw tightened.
I scanned him quickly—champagne-soaked but intact. No cuts, no blood. Somehow, miraculously, he'd managed to demolish an entire champagne tower without a single shard cutting him.
"You're lucky," I said flatly. "All that glass and you didn't get a single cut. Must be nice having the universe on your side."
"Is that concern I hear, Professor Morrison?"
"It's observation. There's a difference." I gestured at the glass in his hair. "That piece is going to fall out on its own. Don't touch it or you'll actually cut yourself and ruin your streak."
I made three calls in rapid succession—hotel coordinator, cleanup crew, and staff to locate backup suit. All while Noah stood there dripping champagne onto the marble, watching me with that analytical look he got sometimes, like he was taking notes for one of his papers.
"You're very efficient when you're annoyed," he observed.
"I'm efficient always. It's called professionalism." I glanced at him again. The wet shirt was really quite transparent. I looked away, more irritated with myself for noticing than with him for existing. "A concept you might want to explore."
"Is that what we're calling this?" He gestured at the phone in my hand, the coordinated cleanup, the careful way I was managing the situation. "Because it looks a lot like you're helping me. Again."
"I'm helping Zoe," I corrected sharply. "There's a difference."
"Right. Of course." But his tone suggested he didn't believe me.
I wanted to throw something at him. Preferably something heavy.
"Go wait in the preparation room," I said instead, my voice clipped.
"Any other instructions, Professor?" The title was delivered with just enough emphasis to remind me he was doing this on purpose. "Should I walk on a specific side of the hallway? Avoid eye contact with the decorative plants?"
"Just go, Mr. Carter."
He nodded, that irritating smile still playing at his lips, and picked up his soaked jacket. He started toward the exit, carrying the jacket and the damp tablecloth, moving with more grace than someone who'd just demolished a champagne tower had any right to possess.
I turned back to coordinate with the cleanup crew, my phone pressed to my ear.
That's when I heard it.
The unmistakable sound of expensive shoes losing traction on champagne-slicked marble, followed by a crash that echoed through the corridor.
I spun around.
Noah was sprawled on the floor just past the doorway. His wet jacket had flown from his hands and was now draped over the decorative antler mount on the wall like some kind of tragic flag of surrender. The tablecloth had landed on his head.
For a moment, there was absolute silence.
Noah pulled the tablecloth off his head, still flat on his back, and stared up at the ceiling. His soaked white shirt clung to him even more transparently now, if that was possible.
"Don't," he said, his voice carrying a warning that might have been threatening if he weren't literally lying on the floor. "Don't say it."
I pressed my hand over my mouth, but it was too late.
The laugh burst out of me—sharp and genuine and completely uncontrollable. It echoed through the corridor, mixing with the soft drip of champagne from the jacket still hanging on the antlers.