Gemotions

The champagne flute felt heavy in Amelia's hand, a physical manifestation of the resentment churning in her stomach. Across the crowded dance floor, she saw him. Liam. His stupid, perfect hair, his easy smile. He was talking to the bride, probably regaling her with some anecdote about their college days, completely oblivious to the volcanic eruption brewing inside Amelia.

Her jaw clenched. She needed a distraction. She spotted the open bar and, with purpose, made her way there, bumping, perhaps a little too forcefully, into several guests along the way. "Excuse me," she muttered, the words clipped and devoid of warmth.

She ordered a double whiskey, the amber liquid a promise of temporary oblivion. As she waited, she scanned the room again. Liam, still charming, still radiating that infuriating confidence. She took a large gulp, the burn a welcome counterpoint to the simmering rage.