I should have known better than to agree to this.

Really, I should have.

Because when your fiancé was a possessive, jealous, slightly unhinged Romanovski, the last thing you should do was let equally unhinged Anya throw you a bachelorette party in a club full of men who didn’t understand the concept of looking respectfully.

Yet, here I was.

In a red dress shorter than my patience, wearing a sash that read Bride-to-Be, with a shot glass in my hand and a sinking feeling in my gut.

Because I knew.

I knew he was watching.

Somewhere in the shadows, in the VIP section, in the goddamn walls for all I...