If it weren't for the photo sequestered quietly and safely on the floor of her bedroom closet, Olivia Carrington likely would have forgotten what her dear betrothed looked like. With her level of intoxication at any given moment, it was a wonder the young woman could even recall her own name, let alone someone else's. Unfortunately, her betrothed's name had slipped her mind. Her mouth opened, tongue flapping uselessly as she tried to conjure something from the cobbed webs of her memory and frowned.

It wasn't that Olivia's memory always operated at the efficiency of someone three times her age; it was only that she'd consumed a few drinks too many and now her stomach roiled in disagreement. One hand fell to her stomach and she swallowed hard, determined to keep the threat of rising bile in the pit of her belly, where it belonged. After a moment, she flagged down a passing tender for a glass of water, which she thirstily drank. Carefully, too. When she was finished, she drew quiet breaths of air inward and sought to dry her tears, rubbing lazily at her eyes with the balled fist of her left hand.

"Haha," she chuckled dismissively, the sound a forced utterance of inebriation. "I can't... It's on the tip of my tongue, but I... I can't remember his name right now, I'm sorry."

Remarkably, her words were understandable. Or at least, she thought they were. And she was aware of their contents, enough so that she looked at Anthony in complete and utter shock. It was as if the socialite didn't believe she was quite as far gone as she was. She rose from the table, taking another swig from her glass.

"I probably should head back home," Olivia surmised after a few moments. "It's a pleasure to meet you, mister."

She stopped suddenly as if overcome with a sudden idea. "I have a picture at home if you'd like to see!" She doesn't seem to estimate the improprieties of what she's said.