"Yeah."
The bracelet catches a shard of light as she reaches for her eyeliner again. She glances at it one more time before turning back to the mirror.
I carry the image into the bathroom. Hold it while I shower, while I dress, while I knot my tie with hands that feel steadier than they have any right to.
The venue is controlled spectacle.
Two hundred white chairs arranged in a chevron on the sand, facing an altar draped in cascading orchids and monstera leaves. The heat radiates off the white fabric like an oven, and the salt breeze keeps lifting the edges of the programs like impatient fingers.
The Caribbean Ocean stretches behind it—turquoise so vivid it looks digitally enhanced. A string quartet plays something classical and expensive near the front. Enormous floral arrangements bookend the aisle like sentries.
Press section: cordoned, stage-left. I count six professional camera setups and phones already recording among seated guests. Every image from the next two hours will be searchable by midnight.
Good.
I arrive separately from Jane. Groomsman attire—navy suit, ivory boutonniere, shoes that don’t just shine—they signal generational money. I move through the crowd, reading the room on instinct.
Security: six uniformed guards flanking the main entrance. Three plainclothes mixed into the guest seating—I spot them by posture, ear pieces, and their sightlines (rotating, systematic). An EMT station tucked behind the catering tent, partially screened by palm fronds. Exits: beach path south, service road north, main resort walkway east.
Ashfords: front left. Arthur Ashford sits with the posture of a man preparing for a board coup—spine rigid, jaw set,hands folded with deliberate calm. Mrs. Ashford beside him, composed behind oversized sunglasses that hide whatever her eyes are doing. They know what's coming. They've sanctioned it.
Hartwells: front right. Blake’s mother in pale blue, dabbing at preemptive tears. His father working the crowd instead of his seat—shaking hands with politicians, donors, anyone with a recognizable last name. The kind of mingling that’s less social and more strategic.
Blake's groomsmen mill near the altar platform. Thompson is already pink-faced, champagne flute in hand. The others cluster in pairs, laughing about something on someone's phone—finance guys whose most dangerous physical activity is opening a champagne bottle at speed.
Then Blake. Center of his own gravity, adjusting his boutonniere with the self-satisfied precision of a man who believes today is going exactly as planned. Tan. Polished. Grinning at guests like he's accepting an award.
And Jane.
Beautiful in that dark-green dress. Fourth row, stage-left, close enough to the AV rig to ensure Bluetooth connectivity. Phone paired—she texted me confirmation five minutes ago. The bracelet on her wrist glints when she shifts, catching my eye before I can stop it.
She looks up.
Our eyes meet across sixty feet of white chairs and unsuspecting guests.
Her chin dips. Small. Almost imperceptible.
Ready.
I return it.
I've got you.
Nobody notices the exchange. It’s over in a heartbeat. It grounds me more than anything else today.
Blake materializes beside me, clapping my shoulder with the palm-forward confidence of a man who's never been refused.
"Bro." He adjusts his cufflinks. "Thanks for standing up here, man. Means a lot."
"Wouldn't miss it."
My voice is neutral. He hears the words.
I hear my lie.
When I don’t say more,he moves on to Thompson and slaps his back too hard and nearly knocks him into a floral arrangement.
My hands are steady. That tells me everything I need to know about where my head is.
