Familiarity had stripped away the illusion.
I knew now that daylight didn’t soften Dominion Hall so much as disguise it. The pale stone and manicured lawns weren’t gentler in the sun—they were more deliberate. Every line intentional. Every window placed to see without being seen.
The moment I stepped inside, it returned.
That low, steady hum beneath everything. Not sound exactly—awareness. As if the house took inventory when you crossed the threshold, quietly noting who you were and what you might cost.
Dominion Hall didn’t watch.
It measured.
Portia met me in a sitting room flooded with natural light, a tablet already in her hands. She looked perfectly composed, as always. Not welcoming. Not cold.
Prepared.
“I’m glad you came,” she said. “I know this is a lot.”
“That seems to be a theme lately,” I replied.
The corner of her mouth curved. “You’re adapting.”
“I don’t have much choice. But truly, I’m happy to be here, discussing this wedding with you.”
She gestured for me to sit, then turned the tablet toward me.
The first image stole my breath.
Open land. Mountains rising in the distance. A wide stretch of sky that felt endless even through a screen.
“Montana,” I murmured.
“Yes,” Portia said. “Specifically, outside Bozeman. Private land.”
She swiped to the next image—an old ranch house. Weathered wood. Broad porch. The kind of place that looked like it had held generations inside its walls.
“This will be the primary location,” she continued. “Ceremony, reception, accommodations.”
“Accommodations?” I echoed.
She smiled then, just slightly. “It’s not a small affair.”
She tapped the screen again.
A layout appeared. Rows. Multiple aisles.
I frowned. “This isn’t structured like a single wedding.”
“No,” Portia said calmly. “It isn’t.”
She let the silence stretch just long enough to make me uneasy.
“There will be six brides,” she said. “One ceremony.”
My brain stalled. “Six.”
“Yes.”
I stared at the screen, then up at her. “You’re planning a joint wedding.”
