I Married Him for Points

Location: The Ashford's Country Club Garden Party

That was him.

Captain Theodore Ashford. Poster boy for heroic shoulders and a tragically perfect jawline.

The sun practically begged to highlight him, glinting off his uniform buttons like tiny, approving stars. He held a champagne flute like it was a tactical map he was bored of, the center of gravity in a room of people trying too hard.

Time for the show to begin.

I squared my shoulders. Alright, Beatrice. Deep breath. Commit to the bit. I spotted a waiter floating by with a tray of overpriced bubbles. Perfect. I snagged two flutes. One for throwing, one for... backup throwing? Moral support? I didn't overthink it.

I marched as I locked onto my target.

Conversations stuttered and died in my wake.

"-and then he said the stock would-oh, dear."

"Is she...is she walking toward the Captain?"

"Move,Constance, for heaven's sake."

They parted. They always did. A whisper slithered past my ear, "Lord knows what she's up to now." Another, closer, hissed, "Probably about to torment another poor soul." And a final, familiar verdict, tinged with fear: "She's crazy. Don't make eye contact."

I ignored them. Their version of madness was bad manners. Mine was a calculated survival strategy. With a side of flair.

Theodore Ashford's face was a masterpiece of polite endurance. His eyes were glazed as he nodded absent mindedly while the man in beside him talked at breakneck speed.

"...a truly excellent arrangement, Captain," the man beside him wheezed, fumbling for a business card. "My factories, your influence, if you'd just consider..."

I stopped. Directly in front of them. A wall of lavender taffeta and hostile intent.

Theo's eyes-distant a second before-snapped up and locked onto mine.

And I, traitorously, froze.

They weren't just green. They were the dark, merciless green of a deep forest- Like a forest that knew all your secrets.

Damn it. He was too aware. The element of surprise was gone.

But the curtain was up. The audience was waiting.

"Lady Cruelton," the businessman squeaked, recognizing me, his face draining of color. He took a half-step back.

Theo's gaze narrowed, just a fraction. Confusion, then dawning assessment.

I raised the champagne flute. The garden held its breath. You could hear a bee question its life choices.

I threw it.

It sailed beautifully through the air. The golden liquid caught the light-a sparkling, expensive insult-before connecting with his left cheekbone with a satisfying splat. It dripped from his unfairly thick lashes, down his nose, and soaked into the heroic wool of his uniform.

The gasps were sharp, a ripping sound through the party.

The businessman scrambled backward as if scalded. "I-I must-my wife-" he stammered, vanishing into the crowd.

Silence. Heavy, stunned, delicious silence.

My voice cut through it, clean and clear as shattered glass. "You absolute walnut. Did your mother raise you in a barn, or did the military just beat all the manners out of you?"

The whispers exploded, a cacophony of scandalized delight.

"She