Chapter 2: Stranger Danger.

The evening had bled into the late hours of the night, casting its cloak of darkness over Celine as she sat alone on a park bench, sobbing. The world seemed to move on without her as passersby cast her furtive glances, a chorus of sidelong stares and muffled whispers.

Her eyes stung, raw and dry from the endless stream of tears that had cascaded down her cheeks.

As if guided by some invisible force, Celine found herself standing in front of a bar, its garish, flashing lights illuminating the thick haze of alcohol and smoke that wafted out onto the street.

As the nauseating aroma of cheap booze and cigarettes filled her nostrils, Celine's voice, a ghostly whisper of her former self, “Just what I need.”

With shaky steps, she waded into the bar, the din of drunken laughter and raucous chatter rising to meet her. Unseen eyes, weighted with judgment, tracked her progress as she slipped into a seat at the bar, her gaze fixed on the grimy countertop.

The bartender, a man with a perpetual scowl and tattoos up his arms, glanced at her for a moment before returning his attention to the row of liquor bottles before him.

“What can I get you, doll?” he asked, his voice gruff with years of smoke and booze.

“Whiskey. Double. Neat,” she ordered, the command a declaration of war against the world. The bartender responded with a slam of the glass on the counter, and Celine tilted her head back, the liquid fire of the amber liquid scorching its way down her throat.

“Tequila.”

Before the bartender could even react, Celine was already slamming the empty glass on the counter, the need for more of the burning escape pulsating through her veins.

“Another,” she barked, her voice a searing edge of desperation.

“More,” she demanded, this time a single word, a battle cry against the demons haunting her soul.

“I need more,” Celine pleaded, her words slurring together in a tangled web of desperation and alcohol-induced haze. She had been drinking for an hour.

“Ma'am, I'm sorry, but you've had more than enough,” the bartender replied, his voice laced with empathy and concern. 

She felt a piercing gaze, icy and malevolent, piercing through her already-fragile senses.

Without a word, she rose unsteadily to her feet, she made her way across the bar, her feet tangling in the shadows as she walked in on the table tucked in the corner. 

“Maybe I am hallucinating because I am drunk or not, but didn’t anyone tell you that it’s rude to continuously stare at people?” Celine slurred, her words a jumbled mess.

The man's gaze never wavered as he leaned back in his chair, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “You can’t blame me. I mean, it’s not everyday that you go to a bar and see a woman in a wedding dress drinking herself to death,” he replied, his voice smooth as velvet.

“Ha.” Celine let out a dry laugh as she sat down opposite him. 

“Look who's talking, you look troubled yourself, and drunk” she retorted, raising an eyebrow. 

“I guess we have something in common then,” he replied, his gaze piercing her drunken, dark blue eyes. “The only difference is that I don’t look like a runaway bride.”

Celine laughed, the sound resonating through the bar and drawing curious glances from the other people.

“Well, tell me, what's bothering you? You look troubled, might as well share,” Celine asked, her eyes fixed on the stranger.

“Oh, I'm fine. But you, sweetheart, you look like you've got a story to tell,” he replied, his voice smooth and warm.

Celine brought her hands together, the clap echoing through the bar like a cymbal crash. With a flourish, she poured herself a healthy helping of wine from the stranger’s cup.

“Oh, I have a very, very funny story to tell,” she chuckled, her eyes dancing with a hint of mirth and mischief.

“Interest me then,” he said, a hint of amusement playing on his lips.

Celine’s laugh was sharp, cutting through the air like a dagger. “So, it’s my wedding day, and guess who’s not getting married?” she asked, her tone dripping with sardonic amusement. 

“Me!” she added, banging her hand on the table for emphasis.

“My boyfriend of six years, whom I adored, was cheating on me.” Her voice wavered, the cracks in her facade showing. “And you know the worst part?”

“No, sweetheart, tell me,” 

“Guess who I got cheated on with?” she asked, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Your friend or best friend perhaps?” the stranger offered, his voice laced with curiosity.

Celine laughed, the sound dry and humorless. “I wish, but um, nope.”

With a single finger, Celine beckoned the stranger forward. He leaned in, eager to hear her whispered revelation. “My aunt,”

“She was like a mother to me, she watched me grow, she bathed me, fed me, I even call her ‘mom’,” Celine continued, her voice trembling with pain and bitterness.

“And your mother?” 

“She died in an accident when I was ten,” Celine replied, a solitary tear cascading down her cheek.

“Shh, don’t cry, baby girl,” the stranger whispered, his thumb tenderly brushing away her tears.

Celine’s words were a sobbing confession, spilling out of her like a river of pain. “And she’s getting married to him,” she cried, her voice breaking with anguish. “My own aunt. She took my place. She’s becoming Mrs. Walker, when it was supposed to be me. Six years, I prayed for this day, and now…now look at me. Drunk, in a bar, spilling my guts to a stranger who could be a goddamn serial killer for all I know.”

Celine leaned into his chest, her face pressed against the fabric, his scent enveloping her in a warm embrace. “I don’t know how to comfort people, Miss. All I can do is offer a hug,” he murmured, his hands tenderly brushing away the remnants of her tears.

Despite her sadness, a giggle escaped her lips as she buried her face deeper into his chest. “Why do you smell so good?” she asked, the world around them melting away as her senses filled with him.

The stranger's chuckle was cut short by Celine's bluntness. “I can literally fuck you because of the way you smell,” she quipped, her tears momentarily forgotten in the heat of the moment.

But her eyes clouded over again as the memory of Leo washed over her. “Leo smelled so good, too,” she sobbed. “I just want to be married.” She reached for her drink, but the stranger's hand stopped her.

“Let's get married then,” he said, his words slicing through the air with unexpected clarity.

Celine's grin widened, her smile lighting up her tear-stained face. “You. Are. So. Smart!” she exclaimed, her words punctuated with exaggerated hand gestures.

“Yeah, let's get married now!” she continued, her hands clapping in joy. But then, as quickly as her happiness had come, it disappeared. Her face fell, her lower lip trembling.

“What's wrong?” the stranger asked, his brow furrowing with concern.

“You haven't proposed to me,” she whimpered, sniffing back a fresh wave of tears.

Celine gingerly placed her hand in his, her fingers lightly brushing against his skin. She watched, her breath catching in her throat, as he pressed a gentle kiss to her finger, sending a wave of goosebumps rippling across her body.

He removed one of the rings from his hand, selecting the smallest one, and gently slid it onto her finger. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice low and husky.

“Celine.”

He stared into her eyes, his expression a mix of tenderness and mischief.

“Celine, will you marry me?” he asked, his voice teasing yet sincere.

Celine's face lit up like a fireworks display, her giggles bubbling over like champagne. “Yes, yes, I will marry you!” she exclaimed, unable to contain her joy.

He smiled, the warmth of his gaze enveloping her like a blanket. “Well then, let's make it official,” he said, standing up and offering her his hand.

“Where are we going?” she asked, her heart racing with anticipation.

“A chapel”

Celine and her new fiancé wandered the streets hand-in-hand, their steps synchronized and their hearts beating in tandem. Suddenly, they stopped in front of a small, ornate chapel, its sign proclaiming it as the “Chapel of Love.”

Without hesitation, they entered the chapel, their gazes drawn to the priest standing behind the pulpit.

“Perfect.”

In no time, they were standing face to face with the priest, standing in the center of the chapel.

“I do,” Erammno proclaimed, his voice strong and sure.

The priest continued with the sacred vows. “Do you, Celine Westfield, take Erammno Vitale as your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?”

“I do!”

“I now pronounce you husband and wife,”

“You may now kiss the bride.” 

He gently pulled Celine in, their lips meeting in a passionate, tender kiss.

 

“From dawn to dusk, a bride she became.” _Ermanno Vitale.