Chapter 1: The Wine Toss Showdown

When I was at the club watching the male dancers perform, chaos found me in the form of a glass of red wine hurled straight at my chest.

The red splatter exploded over my blouse like a crime scene—sticky, sweet, and so cold it made my skin crawl. The bass thumped on, but every head nearby snapped to watch. Some people smirked, others started whispering, and the dancer on stage faltered, stuck between his routine and the drama blooming just feet away. My heart banged against my ribs, but I forced myself to stand tall, daring anyone to see me flinch.

A young woman barreled over, practically vibrating with outrage, and accused me of getting between her and her boyfriend.

She couldn’t have been more than twenty, pink streak in her hair, the kind of energy you see at campus rallies—not at a velvet-roped lounge. Her voice cut through the music, sharp as a box cutter. The bartender paused, eyebrow cocked. Someone whipped out a phone, and I could already see the TikTok caption: “Wine Toss at the Uptown Revue.”

For a split second, my instinct was to check my phone—was it safe? My mother’s voice echoed in my head: “Never make a scene in public, Maddie. That’s how people remember you.”

I dabbed the wine with a napkin, then, with the crowd leaning in, reached into my Kate Spade for my trump card—a marriage license. The club’s signature drink list—Lady Gaga Lemonade, Beyoncé Breeze—mocked me from neon chalkboards. A couple next to me gawked over their jalapeño margaritas, waiting for the next act.

I set the crisp marriage license on the table, the gold seal catching the light—a brassy orange in the club’s glow. I made sure she—and everyone else—could see my name next to Brian’s.

“Thanks for keeping my husband company.”

The words left my lips smooth and calm, like I’d done this a hundred times before. The crowd exchanged glances—some disappointed there’d be no hair-pulling, some looking at me with new respect.

“Sorry, he’s a bit of a flirt.”

I tossed off a little shrug, half-apology, half-smirk. The male dancer shot me a sympathetic look—like, lady, you really don’t get paid enough for this.

“I’ll set him straight when we get home.”

I raised my glass—water this time—and took a slow sip. The young woman’s jaw dropped.

“Leave your number. Next time my husband needs a friend, I’ll give you a call.”

She sputtered. The dancer coughed into his fist to hide a laugh. I kept my gaze cool, daring her to try me.

---

I stared at the sticky, cold wine soaking my blouse, stunned for a heartbeat. It was like starring in a trashy reality show—except this time, I was the meme. My mind scrambled: How much for dry cleaning? Could I salvage this top? Was there a halfway-decent bathroom to clean up in? The club’s smell—perfume and spilled beer—sharpened, every sense on high alert.

Seriously? Someone had the nerve to splash wine on me in a place like this?

I scanned the room, half-expecting security to swoop in, but everyone just watched. In upscale lounges, drama was just another Saturday night.

The dancer next to me grabbed a stack of cocktail napkins to help. He had the kind of baby face that still got carded at bars, but his arms said he spent more time at the gym than in class. "Sorry, ma’am, here—" he fumbled, offering napkins, his biceps flexing in the neon. The gesture was sweet, if totally useless.

I raised my hand to stop him, locking eyes with the culprit. I squared my jaw and let the seconds drag, letting the music fade into a dull hum behind me. My glare said: Not tonight.

The young woman was fuming—her cheeks flushed, fists shaking at her sides. For a second, I almost pitied her. Almost.

She wore a loose white sundress and battered Converse—completely out of place amid the velvet booths and $20 cocktails named after pop stars. She looked like she’d wandered in from a street fair, the contrast almost funny.

If you ignored the fury in her eyes, she was almost innocent. There was a raw, unpolished naivete about her—something you lose after a few years in the real world, especially in a city like Cleveland, where this club hid between a yoga studio and a vape shop.

“I’m warning you, stay away from Brian,” she said, clenching her fists. Her voice shook, but she powered through, determined to sound older and meaner. The crowd watched, hungry for a scene.

I leaned back against the leather sofa, the cushions cool under my back. I crossed my legs, giving off bored-housewife energy, letting her rant slide right off.

So this was about Brian. Of course.

I brushed my fingers over my brow—a move my mother used to do in church when the sermon ran long, signaling patience on the edge. "Let's get this over with," my body language said.

“Brian? And who are you to him?” I let the question dangle, sharp and cold.

She tried to puff herself up, hair toss and all, but she looked more like a defensive kitten than a queen bee. The effect was almost cute.

“I’m his girlfriend. We’re about to get married, so please, you homewrecker, stop ruining our relationship.”

The word "homewrecker" landed with all the subtlety of a soap opera line. I had to bite my cheek to keep from laughing. The crowd was loving it.

She tried, "Didn’t anyone ever tell you? Side chicks always lose in the end."

Now we were quoting Instagram memes. I almost wanted to applaud. Welcome to 2024, where digital drama is just another Tuesday.

She kept ranting, but her threats were all volume and no substance.

I couldn’t help it—I laughed. A real, belly-deep laugh that made everyone shift in their seats. I stood up, my heels clicking on the tile, and watched her shrink a little.

Since when did Brian like naïve college girls?

I let my stare linger, sizing her up. She looked like she’d never paid rent, never argued with a landlord—still living in the soft-focus world of dorms and late-night pizza.

Maybe my look was too much; she took a wary step back. “What are you doing?”

She clutched her purse tighter, eyes darting toward the exit.

I smirked and pressed my hand lightly to her trembling shoulder. She shivered beneath my palm. For a split second, I almost felt bad—but not bad enough to stop.

“Relax. I just want to know how you found out about me.”

I leaned in close enough for her to catch my perfume—sharp citrus, a jarring contrast to the wine stain still clinging to my blouse.

She gritted her teeth, eyes full of contempt but with a flicker of doubt.

“If you don’t want people to know, don’t do it. I’ve seen plenty of gold-diggers like you, throwing yourselves at rich guys without caring if they’re taken.”

She spat the words out like she’d practiced them in the girls’ room between classes—loud, petty, desperate for an audience.

“People like you have no sense of decency or shame.”

She sounded almost rehearsed, like quoting from a self-help podcast.

“Don’t you know breaking up families comes back to bite you?”

She was so righteous, I almost admired it.

But I burst out laughing—this time, the laugh was rough and wild. The kind you can’t fake, the kind that makes everyone uncomfortable.

She looked at me, confused. She’d expected tears, or at least an apology. Instead, I laughed until my side hurt.

After I’d laughed enough, I sat back on the sofa, crossing my legs with a flourish. The dancer, still clutching his napkins, looked unsure what to do.

“Is that so? Being a mistress is that miserable?” I let my voice go thoughtful, tapping my fingers on the glass table.

“But maybe do your homework before you start accusing people.”

The crowd was hooked now—no one even pretending not to listen.

“As far as I know, Brian doesn’t have a fiancée.”

She rushed to explain, “I am—”

“But he does have a wife he’s been married to for five years.” I cut her off, cool as ice, placing the marriage license on the table.

She rushed over, but when she saw the official seal and our photo, she went silent, hands shaking.

“See for yourself,” I smirked. “But even if you can’t, Brian’s got a copy too. You can check it out next time you’re cuddling.”

I mimicked her earlier words, echoing her tone: “I’ve seen plenty of gold-diggers like you, chasing after married men.”

“People like you have no sense of decency or shame.”

“Don’t you know breaking up families comes back to bite you?”

Her face went pale, her whole body trembling. I felt a flash of pity—but it passed quickly.

Then I pulled a wad of cash from my purse and tossed it on the table, the bills landing with a soft thud. In the club’s low light, it looked almost theatrical.

“Thanks for looking after my husband lately.”

The sarcasm was so thick it drew a snort from the bar.

“I don’t know the going rate for someone like you. Leave your number. If my husband needs you again, I’ll call.”

The crowd sucked in a breath. Even the dancer stared, eyes wide.

Her eyes filled with rage and tears. She blinked furiously, teetering on the edge of another meltdown.

“I’m not... Don’t insult me.”

Her voice wavered, tiny and lost. All the fire was gone.

I reached out and ran my hand over the male dancer’s abs beside me, looking completely sincere. He looked startled, then flexed for effect, the crowd laughing. I let my hand linger, playing the role to the hilt.

“Sorry, my husband’s a bit of a flirt.”

I winked at the dancer, who shrugged good-naturedly. The young woman looked like she wanted to disappear.

“But don’t worry, I’ll set him straight when we get home.”

I tossed my hair and lifted my chin, as if this were just another night in suburbia.