Once the kitchen island was completely covered, the old man picked up a bottle of tequila and took a long drink directly from it.
He grimaced and then took another.
When he noticed I wasn't drinking, he pointed toward the bottles.
"Go ahead. Choose whatever you want."
I sighed loudly and grabbed a bottle of Scottish vodka.
"So your hobby is secretly getting drunk behind your wife's back. Interesting," I murmured before taking a drink.
The alcohol burned my throat.
"I actually hate alcohol. I always have," he said. "But it's the only thing that's kept me sane since my princess disappeared."
So this entire time, the old man had done nothing but drown his grief in alcohol.
That explained the ridiculous number of bottles.
He probably hadn't known what to buy, so he had bought everyth
