Silas never showed.
Midnight came and went like a breath held too long.
I told myself it was for the best.
Told myself I didn’t need him to show up at my suite door with those storm-colored eyes and that bruised-knuckle hunger. Told myself that last night’s mess—ribbons, ghosts, Monte’s truth like a blade pressed to my ribs—was all the clarity I needed.
And still …
A part of me had waited.
Not in the window like some lovesick fool, no. But I hadn’t gone to sleep right away either. I’d lingered in the shower. I’d left the door unlocked. I’d turned off all the lights but one, the room bathed in a soft, golden glow like I was hoping someone would follow it home.
But he didn’t.
And by morning, I was back in motion. Back to lipstick and scheduling apps and the illusion of perfect control.
Now I stood in the sun-drenched foyer of Lustre, Charleston’s most sought-after wedding bakery, pretending my heart wasn’t still bruised from the night before.
The shop was tucked on a corner in the historic district, all warm brick and oversized windows framed in navy blue trim. Inside, it was the kind of space that made you forget the world outside existed—floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with jars of sugar flowers and glimmering edible pearls, the air thick with the scent of buttercream and vanilla bean. Gold leaf danced on fondant swatches displayed beneath antique glass domes. A chandelier of hand-blown glass orbs floated above the center tasting table, catching sunlight and fracturing it across the marble floor in prismatic shards.
It was luxury. Charm. Magic.
And I ran the room like a symphony.
Six couples. Six different opinions on things.
And yet somehow, it was more than that.
Because this wasn’t just about cake.
It was about this moment. This sliver of sweetness.
I looked at them—each bride radiant in her own way, laughing softly.
There was Claire, sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued, who’d survived hell just to get here—dragged through darkness, held captive, and still she stood, Brooklyn-tough in heels, eyes never leaving Marcus like he was her lighthouse in a war zone.
There was Isabel, who’d sworn she’d never fall for a Dane—least of all her brother’s best friend—and yet she sat beside Ryker now, their knees brushing under the table.
Anna, graceful and quiet, had parents who’d fled Russia with nothing but a dream.
And then Sloane, poised and controlled, the perfect daughter of Charleston socialites who still clung to pearls and propriety. Her parents had never pictured her with a Dane, let alone onewho didn’t give a damn about debutante rules or country club lineage. But she had, and now here she was, pinky entwined with Charlie’s, daring the world to say a word.
Vivienne, elegant as ever, cracked when Elias fed her a bite of blood orange buttercream, the kind of laughter bursting out of her that made the whole room pause, like joy had just walked in wearing red lipstick.
These weren’t just brides.
They were women in love—flawed, fierce, unforgettable.
This was their moment.
And Hallie Mae.
God.
She was smiling. Laughing even. But I saw the way her fingers gripped the stem of her champagne flute just a little too tight. I saw the way she kept looking toward the door, like maybe—just maybe—her father might still walk through it. That ache never truly left her eyes. Not since she buried him.
This cake tasting wasn’t fluff.
