Mini Trial Pt. 4

You were furious.

Absolutely fuming.

The weight of the bags dug into your arms, every ounce of the contents mocking you, taunting you with their existence. Two arms full of groceries, snacks, drinks, and that stupid bag from the shopping trip. Your fingers ached from gripping the handles, your body sore from the hours of walking through the mall and now lugging all this crap across the city. You were so done with this day, done with everything. The thought of it made your blood boil, every little thing in your life right now—every decision that had led you to this point, feeling like an unrelenting weight you couldn’t shake off.

And then, of course, there were the heels.

Oh, the fucking heels.

You could feel every tiny click of the stilettoes with each step as you approached the entrance, your mind running a mile a minute. And, of course, you weren’t struggling to walk in them, because Aphrodite’s damn curse had taken care of that for you. No, the curse was working just fine—your walk was perfectly in line with the heels. The thing was, you didn’t want this. You hated every single second of it.

Thank you, Aphrodite, you thought, sneering in your mind, for making me walk like this. It’s such a great feeling. Seriously, who wouldn’t want to feel like a damn girl all the time?

Fuck, even the way you were walking seemed… almost too normal. Too easy. The sway of your hips, the subtle arch of your feet, the way your posture adjusted without thinking—it felt like someone else’s body was in charge. Someone more feminine. Someone who had no right to be as comfortable in heels as you were.

God, fuck this.

You reached the fancy entrance of the apartment complex and shot a venomous glare at the sleek, high-rise building in front of you. Every inch of this place screamed luxury, and you hated it. You hated the fact that Serena and Cliff had this, that they had everything. You hated that you were the one running errands, that you were the one stuck in a curse, in a dress, in heels, doing this stupid job for them while they partied away.

“Fucking… stupid,” you muttered under your breath, giving the heavy bags another shift in your arms. It was just too much. Too heavy. Too damn annoying. Every single thing about this cursed errand, this unnecessary errand, was making you seethe with frustration.

You cursed Serena in your mind.

“Why couldn’t you just go yourself? You’re the one with the fiancé, with the fucking wedding. Why the hell do I have to do this for you, huh? I’m not your fucking maid.” You seethed as you stepped through the automatic doors, the cool air-conditioned atmosphere of the lobby only adding to your aggravation.

And then, of course, you saw the elevator.

The moment your eyes locked onto the button panel, you could feel the hot rush of anger flare up inside you. The elevator doors stood closed, the little green light flickering above the call button, but there was no sign of it moving. You hit the button. Nothing. Hit it again, just to make sure. Still, nothing.

FUCK. NO.

You had to physically stop yourself from shouting at the thing. Instead, you gritted your teeth and stormed over to the elevator’s notice board. A small sign was plastered there in black letters:

“Out of Service.”

Out of service?

You had just walked all the way through the lobby, through the shiny, polished floors and glass walls, just to see this shit?

You snarled through gritted teeth. “Great. Fucking great.” Your fingers twitched in irritation, and for a split second, you seriously considered just throwing all the bags down and walking out. Walking the hell back to the mall or home or anywhere else.

But no. You were too far gone now. You were already here. And _someone _had to deal with this.

The thought of Serena’s happy little face telling you how great a job you were doing only made your blood boil harder.

“Ughhhhhhh,” you groaned under your breath, casting another furious glance at the elevator.

If the damn elevator wasn’t going to work, then you’d have to walk.

Your heels clicked louder against the polished floors as you made your way to the stairs. Your arms burned as you shifted the weight of the bags. The ridiculousness of the entire situation had you almost seeing red. This is bullshit. This is SO bullshit, you repeated to yourself over and over, each step more forceful than the last.

You had **** but to head up to the fourth floor. It wasn’t like this building had just one or two floors. No, it was tall. And you knew from the moment you’d walked in that it had to be at least twenty stories tall. The thought of going up a flight of stairs didn’t seem so bad, until you remembered the _insane _weight of the food and the drinks, and everything else in your arms.

“Why the fuck is it always me who has to do the stupid shit?” you grumbled, gritting your teeth as you walked toward the first set of stairs. You could already feel your legs aching from carrying the bags, the tightness in your stomach growing as you realized how far you still had to go.

But you didn’t stop. You _couldn’t _stop. You were already too far into this ridiculous errand to back out now.

Each step up was a struggle, your thighs burning as the high heels clicked noisily against the stairs. You could feel your body swaying with every movement, the annoyance deepening as you had to adjust your grip on the bags. The heels made the climb even more torturous—each step feeling more like an effort, as if the shoes were mocking you, making everything just that much harder.

There was no reason why you should even be walking in these things, except for that stupid curse. No man, no real man, would ever be caught dead doing what you were doing right now. But of course, here you were, walking in heels like it was just another day.

But you still couldn’t stop. You wouldn’t let yourself.

“Serena,” you muttered, your eyes shooting daggers at the stairwell. “I swear to god, I’m gonna fucking kill you for this later. You’ve got this big ass wedding, and I’m here carrying all this bullshit for you.”

The bags seemed to get heavier with each step, the irritation rising higher. You could feel the sweat beginning to form at your temples. It was getting hard to focus, the weight of everything dragging on your body. The frustration was overwhelming.

You are such an idiot, you thought bitterly, each step feeling like a punishment. _This is your life now. Welcome to the club. You’re not just one of them—you’re one of those girls. The girls who look at each other’s nails, swap makeup tips, and wear heels that could kill a guy just by standing on him. _The anger simmered deeper, making the burn in your legs feel like a distant memory. You weren’t even you anymore. Who the hell were you? What were you doing with your life?

By the time you made it to the fourth floor, you were so mad that you could barely think straight. You wanted to scream, but you knew it wouldn’t do any good. Instead, you slammed your hand against the doorbell.

When the door finally opened, revealing Serena’s fiancé standing there with a grin on his face, you wanted to scream.

But you just smiled back at him, gritting your teeth. “I brought the snacks,” you said as sweetly as you could manage.

You stepped into the apartment with all the bags still weighing heavily in your arms, your patience nearly shattered from the ridiculousness of everything that had happened so far. As the door swung open, you were greeted by a mess of noise, laughter, and shouting that felt like it hit you in the face like a ton of bricks. It was chaos—loud, obnoxious, the kind of chaos that made your blood boil.

You adjusted your grip on the bags, still grumbling under your breath as you stepped through the doorway. And just as you were about to announce yourself, you were immediately met with a chorus of drunken cheers.

"Whoo! Damn! Lookin' fine, baby!" One of the groomsmen, a tall, scruffy guy with messy hair, called out. The others joined in, hooting and hollering, their faces red with ****.

You froze for a second, blinking in disbelief. What the hell was going on?

"Who’s this?!" Another guy yelled, his words slurring. "A stripper? I didn’t know we had one comin' in tonight!"

Your face flushed with anger and embarrassment, and you dropped the bags just a little too harshly onto the counter as you held your hands up in defense. "What? No! I’m not—"

Before you could finish, the loud guy waved you off and winked. “Well damn, the boss sure knows how to pick 'em!” He raised his beer can in a mock toast.

The other groomsmen laughed like idiots, and you felt your patience slip away with every second that passed.

"Guys, I'm not a stripper," you repeated, your voice sounding much more frustrated than you intended. “I’m just a _bridesmaid _here to bring food and drinks to you guys, okay?”

But of course, they were too drunk to process anything you said. The words flew over their heads like confetti in the wind.

One of the groomsmen, a shorter guy with a stupid grin plastered on his face, pointed at you and said, “Man, I swear you look just like one of those strippers from the party last year. What, you here for the bachelorette party or something?”

Another guy chimed in, still struggling to keep his eyes focused, “She’s gonna give us a show, huh? Don’t be shy now, baby.”

By this point, you were beyond pissed. Your anger was bubbling so hot in your chest, you could feel your face burning. The more they misinterpreted who you were, the worse it felt. You thought about storming out. Hell, you even considered tossing the food at their stupid faces just to get out of there.

But no. You couldn’t leave. You had to do this. Serena was counting on you, even if it meant enduring this utter nightmare.

Finally, the fiancé stumbled into the living room, looking like a mess himself, with his shirt half-buttoned and his tie hanging limply around his neck. He was grinning like an idiot, too.

“Hey! You must be... uh... the stripper!” He pointed at you in a half-drunk daze. “Looking good, sweetie!”

Your temper finally snapped. No more of this bullshit.

“I’m _not _a stripper, goddammit! I’m a bridesmaid!” you snapped, the words leaving your mouth before you could even fully control them. Your face was on fire, and you could feel your patience unraveling faster than you could hold it together.

The fiancé blinked in confusion for a moment, clearly not processing your words. “Right, right,” he said, nodding like he understood, though he clearly didn’t. He laughed loudly. “Well, we’re glad you’re here anyway. Come on in! Get us some drunks, yeah?”

It felt like you had just lost the battle. They weren't going to listen to you, no matter what you said. And frankly, you couldn’t take it anymore.

With a resigned sigh, you grabbed the bag of sodas and food bags, walking toward the counter. You started arranging everything, setting out the snacks and the sodas, all while trying to keep yourself together. But the groomsmen weren’t making it easy.

"Yo, stripper, come sit with us!" one of them yelled. "We need you to keep us company!"

You ignored them, pretending you couldn’t hear the mocking tone in their voices. You could already feel your temper bubbling, but you swallowed it down as best as you could, hoping to just get through this without any more embarrassing moments.

The fiancé introduced himself properly then, still overly drunk. “I’m Cliff,” he slurred, grinning as he extended a hand to you. “You’re lookin’ real good, sweetheart.”

You shook his hand, trying to put on a polite face, though you wanted to throw him through the wall at that point.

"Right, uh… Cliff, I really just came here to drop off this stuff. Serena’s expecting me to be back soon,” you said, hoping to end the conversation, but of course, that was wishful thinking.

Cliff didn’t seem to hear you at all. He was already distracted by the other guys who were hooting and cheering over the food and drinks.

“You should join us, babe! Have a drink! It’s all good, we’re just partying tonight!” Another groomsman waved a beer at you.

Your head was spinning. You were too tired, too frustrated to fight it anymore. It was clear that nothing you said would get through to these idiots. Your stomach churned with humiliation, your anger rising, but you had one choice: you were stuck here. And if you were going to be stuck here, then you were going to get through this however you could.

With a deep, **** breath, you grabbed a beer from the cooler, popping the top with a quick flick of your thumb. You leaned against the counter, away from the drunken mess that was slowly turning into more of a disaster with every passing minute.

As you took the first swig, the cool liquid hit your throat, and you realized you didn’t even care anymore. Fuck it.

The taste was sharp, bitter, and it felt like everything that had happened up to this point had built to this moment. So what if you were in heels, with your body cursing you for it, sitting awkwardly in a kitchen? So what if they thought you were a stripper?

The groomsmen kept hooting from the living room, but you ignored them as you sat back on the counter, letting the bitter beer calm your nerves. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting yourself breathe.

Fuck everything.