I swallowed down the bitter lump in my throat and pushed open the door to introduce my family to the worst mistake I’d ever made.
My head ticked, threatening to explode as we walked toward the enormous Balinese front door of my brother-in-law’s Diamond Head villa. How were we here? Actually, about to go to my house to meet my family?
Han wrapped my hand in his and bit out, “Order,” before I could protest.
So I didn’t.
Weirdly, having my hand force held wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. The Fae King’s larger-than-life presence grounded me somehow—even though he was the one causing me all this turmoil.
Eventually, we made it to the front door, and Han took it upon himself to ring the bell.
“I got it!” Albie yelled on the other side of the door.
But any relief I might have felt at having my nephew answer the bell instead of an adult who’d I have to explain Han to was completely short-lived. Albie opened the door. But Faizan stood directly behind him. Like The Ghost of Past Holiday Mistakes. Who knew I’d fallen into a Scrooge retelling set in Hawaii?
And just in case I had any illusions about getting through this without any weird feelings, Albie looked from us to Faizan and announced like a character in a Disney sitcom, “AWK-ward!”
Faizan’s gaze dropped to my left hand—to the steel and onyx ring that easily stood out against the backdrop of my red party dress.
“It is good to see you again, Jazz,” he said after a tense beat. “Right this way, please.”
Oh God, this already felt so terrible. Conflicting compulsions to both hide my face and explain everything hit me hard.
But Faizan turned his back before I could do either. Leaving me, the woman who ignored his politely worded “figure your shit out” last Valentine’s Day, to follow.
Albie grabbed my other hand. He was way more enthusiastic about our arrival than me. “Aunt Jazz! Aunt Jazz! There are so many people at this party who don’t know how to surf. I promised them you’d get them up on their boards before they left Hawaii.”
Typically, this would be the point where I reminded my nephew that he couldn’t just volunteer me to his friends like surfing lessons were PTA mom cupcakes. But all the butterflies in my stomach had gone into apocalyptic mode, basically seizing up and dying one by one, rather than having to face what came next.
The Broken Billionaire, and now Albie and Mika, lived in one of those architectural wonders that managed to infuse Polynesian culture with modern sensibilities. So nearly the entire downstairs was an open-plan space with floor-t0-ceiling sliding windows that made it hard to tell where the inside stopped, and the outside began when they were fully open.
I imagined the living room area right next to the kitchen was perfect for entertaining. But everybody at the party had gathered out on the lanai, listening to K-Pop and watching the fireworks that Hawaiians loved to set off at Christmas as well as the Fourth of July…and New Year’s—both Western and Lunar—basically, we just loved fireworks.
However, all interest in the very illegal firework shows going on along the beach disappeared when Albie announced, “Hey, Everybody! Aunt Jazz is here with the boyfriend Brad didn’t replace—what’s his name again?”
Every single conversation came to a stop. And every single body at the party turned to stare at us as whoever was in charge of the music cut it off with an abrupt record scratch.
I could only stare down at my nephew in complete and utter horror. But Han answered, “Han. My name is Han.”
“His name is Han!” Albie yelled out.
The partygoers stared at us in shocked silence—including my parents, who were seated at the outside dining table right next to the pool.
I stood there frozen, wondering if I’d ever figure out what to say.
But then Mika appeared, pushing her way to the front of the crowd. And my sister seemed to speak for everyone gathered when she yelled, “What?”
She looked at Han, looked at me. And like Faizan, her eyes dropped down to the ring on my finger.
“Jasmine,” she said, her voice little more than a horrified croak. “Tell me you didn’t get engaged to this guy.”
“No, we’re not engaged,” Han answered. He finally dropped my hand.
But only to hold up his own hand and say, “We’re married.”
I’d never watched K-drama—that was my sister’s thing. But it felt like I’d fallen into one when the crowd released a collective gasp.
To my further horror, Han stepped forward into that shocked reaction to tell them, “But if it were up to her, we wouldn’t be husband and wife. I forced Jasmine to marry me a few months ago. And I’m….”
Han looked away from his rapt audience and held my eyes, “I’m sorry I did that.”
