PORTIA
Two days later, I was too tired to cry.
Too tired to think, or ache, or scroll through old texts that didn’t exist.
The day had been a marathon of satin and lace, champagne flutes and false eyelashes, carefully worded compliments and expertly deflected emotional crises.
The ladies—my radiant, unpredictable, feral little bridal flock—had descended on the King Street boutique like queens at court, sweeping through racks of designer gowns with the force of a hurricane and the indecision of a Netflix user trying to choose a show.
I’d made small talk with Vivienne’s sister, talked Sloane’s mother out of a feathered veil, and pretended not to notice when Anna had quietly wiped her eyes after slipping into a fitted crepe dress that made her look like sin and salvation all at once.
Six brides. Six vision boards. Six family dynamics simmering beneath the surface like champagne under pressure.
I hadn’t eaten all day.
Not really.
There’d been mini quiches and little cucumber sandwiches at the boutique—genteel bites passed around on silver trays by a flustered catering assistant—but I’d been too busy tracking hem lengths to even consider a plate. At one point, Pia had offered me a bite of her lobster roll and I’d smiled so tightly my jaw ached for twenty minutes.
So now, alone in my suite at The Palmetto Rose, feet bare, hair twisted up, I opened the silver domes of room service like sacred relics.
The scent hit me first—smoked shrimp and butter, collard greens laced with vinegar and heat, cornbread slick with honeyed glaze. The shrimp and grits were practically glowing in their shallow porcelain bowl, steam curling into the air like holy incense.
I took one bite.
And nearly wept.
The grit was creamy, the shrimp blackened to perfection, the sauce rich with bacon and something bright—lemon maybe. I chewed slowly, reverently. Like maybe if I dragged it out long enough, the whole world would pause with me.
The lights were dim. Jazz crackled low from the speaker in the corner. Outside, Charleston breathed its nighttime lullaby—Spanish moss whispering in the wind, cars humming distantly down cobblestone streets.
I let my eyes close for a moment.
I let myself pretend that I was just a woman having dinner.
Not a wedding planner unraveling beneath her own perfection.
Not a woman who kissed the wrong man because the right one had vanished into the dark.
And then?—
A knock.
Not loud. Not sharp.
Just three slow raps.
I didn’t move at first. I just sat there, fork suspended over the cornbread. My heart didn’t race. It stalled.
Because some part of me already knew.
Room service wouldn’t knock like that. Monte wouldn’t knock at all—he’d text, he’d wait, he’d ask permission. Bea would burst in with a bottle of wine and a rant about Pia trying to order six custom bridesmaid gowns with thigh slits “tastefully inspired by Angelina Jolie’s Oscar leg.”
No. This knock was different.
Intentional. Quiet.
Like a question he didn’t want to ask out loud.
