Blake curses under his breath.
I press myself flat against the hedge, heart pounding, until I hear him stumble off in the opposite direction, cursing about needing a real drink.
I stop recording.
Ifind Barbie in the event hall —finalizing details for Natalie’s bachelorette night with two bridesmaids and a very patient resort concierge.
I hover. Wait. Bounce once on the balls of my feet.
Finally, she notices me. “Jane. If you have a strong opinion on tequila shots versus champagne towers, now is the time.”
“I have something better,” Iwhisper into her ear. “I got Blake.”
That does it.
“Five minutes,” she says briskly to her audience. Then she hooks a finger at me and steers us toward a quieter corner behind the drapes.
“What do you have?” She asks as she accepts one of my ear buds.
“Audio,” I whisper. “Scarlett. Blake. Just now.”
Her eyes sharpen. She pops the earbud in.
I hit play and we listen together.
The difference is immediate.
When I was behind the hedge, I heardeverything. The words. The tone. The way Blake slithered around her authority.
Now?
The ocean crashes louder than I remember. Wind rushes through the mic. Scarlett’s voice cuts in and out. Blake’s is clearer—but parts blur, smear, dissolve into background noise.
Barbie’s jaw tightens as she listens.
When it ends, she pulls the earbud out slowly.
“Damn it,” she mutters. “That wind.”
“I know,” I say, deflated. “It sounded clearer in person.”
“It always does,” she replies. “Recordings are cruel like that.” She thinks for a beat, then looks at me. “Don’t get me wrong. This is bad… in the good way. You can hear the entitlement. The sleaze. The way he talks to her.”
“But,” I say.
“But,” she confirms, “it’s not enough.”
My stomach drops. “Not enough to convince Natalie?”
“Not enough to be undeniable,” Barbie says. “If we play this for her right now, she’llwantto hear what she wants to hear. Blake will spin. Minimize. Joke his way out. He always does.”
She taps her manicured nail against her phone. “If we’re going to stop this wedding before vows are exchanged, it must be ironclad. No interpretation. No benefit of the doubt.”
“We need them on video,” she says quietly. “Face. Voice. Context. Something that makes it impossible to explain away.”
I nod. “Understood. I’ll stay close.”
The path back to the casita area is quieter, lit by soft lanterns strung between palm trees. The music from the cocktail hour fades, replaced by the rhythmic sigh of the ocean and the chirp of unseen insects. It’s beautiful. Peaceful.
