“Seneca.”
Her brows lift, her lips parting slightly. “The philosopher?”
“The one and only.” My smirk deepens. “That way I can say his name without raising suspicion, and you can pretend it’s your dog.”
She bursts out laughing, tilting her head back, exposing the line of her throat. When she leans forward again, her fingers brush mine on the armrest—light, intentional, electric—before retreating. “I don’t have a dog.”
“By the time you need to say it, everyone’ll be too drunk to notice anyway.” I shrug, sipping from my glass, but my eyes stay locked on her mouth.
And she notices.
My brothers are the only guests at this wedding. The three of them stand beside me, all in suits and ties. Silas looks exhausted—I know he jumped on a flight the second I told him about the plan. He said he pulled an all-nighter studying for some huge exam. Oliver looks completely unfazed, like this is just another Tuesday. And Killian… well, Killian looks more nervous than I am.
“Did you talk to her?” Silas mutters over my shoulder.
“We agreed not to speak for two days before the wedding.”
“Pfft. That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
I shoot him a sharp look.
He raises his hands in surrender, but doesn’t shut up. “Kill,” he says, calling over our youngest brother, “go stand by the door. Let me know the second you see her.”
“Yes, sir,” Killian salutes with a mock grin and trots off like he’s on some secret mission.
The priest walks up to the altar, looking over his small, oval glasses that sit low on his nose. “Everything alright?”
“Yes, Father. Sorry about the delay. She’s on her way.”
Because she has to be. There’s gotta be a reason. Something small. Something silly we’ll laugh about later. Emma’s always late. We’ve fought about it a million times. But I really thought today would be different. Fifteen minutes later, the priest tells us he’s heading to his office and to call him when she arrives.
“Luca…”
“Don’t, Silas.” My voice comes out sharper than I mean, my jaw tight, eyes fixed on the door like I can will her to walk through it.
“She’s forty minutes late. You want me to call her house?”
My stomach twists. I hate this—hate what she’s doing to me right now. But mostly, I’m worried. My fingers drum against my thigh, restless, betraying the storm inside.What if something happened on the way here? No one knows where she was headed. What if… what if she’s hurt?
“Please. Call her,” I whisper, my throat raw. My eyes drop to the floor, ashamed at how desperate I sound.
Silas nods. His hand squeezes my shoulder—firm, steady—and then he heads for the hallway. He’s already pulling his phone from his pocket, thumb jabbing the screen as I recite her number. I have it memorized; burned into me. He has a phone. I don’t. Dad said he’d get me one before college. Whatever.
The second Silas steps out, the silence closes in. My heart changes rhythm—frantic, sharp, wrong. Each beat slams against my ribs, hard enough I can feel it in my throat.
Don’t do this to me, Em.
Anything but this.
The clock ticks in the corner, loud as a hammer. Each second stretches, mocking me. The hands crawl, dragging time into a cruel, slow-motion loop.
I pace across the room, back and forth, my palms damp, my teeth grinding. Every pass by the window, I stop, press myhand to the glass, searching the street for headlights that never appear.
Inside me, something cracks.
“Oliver.”
His head lifts from the chair, brows drawn together, green eyes flicking between me and the door. “Yeah, brother?”
