My mind is running positions: Blake will take center when the music cues. I’ll slot in on his right. Natalie beside the officiant; her father two steps back for the handoff. Jane twelve meters behind in the seats. Security flanks the perimeter.
Keep your body between him and Natalie.
Keep your eyes on Jane.
Containment is everything. Timing is everything. And when Blake's face catches up to the reality his ego won't see coming, I'll be exactly where I need to be.
The string quartet shifts to Pachelbel. The cue.
The processional begins.
Bridesmaids first—Barbie, Sloane, Merritt, Katelyn and two other women. Practiced smiles. Measured steps. Katelyn's eyes are red-rimmed, but she holds her bouquet steady.
Then Natalie.
She appears at the end of the aisle on her father's arm, and a collective intake of breath ripples through the guests. White gown. Cathedral train. Hair swept up with pearl pins that catch the afternoon sun. She is, objectively, stunning.
And underneath the couture and the composure, I can see it—the finest tremor in her bouquet hand. The way her jaw is set half a millimeter too tight. The controlled pace of someone walking toward the future she’s chosen for herself.
She doesn't look at Blake as she approaches. She looks at her bridesmaids. At her mother. At the ocean behind the altar like it's an escape route she's already mapped.
Arthur Ashford delivers his daughter's hand to Blake with a single, unreadable nod. Then he steps back—not to his seat. To a position two rows deep, where he can reach the aisle in three strides.
Blake takes Natalie's hand. Beams at her.
She smiles back. Perfectly calibrated.
The officiant begins.
Welcome. Gratitude. The beauty and fruition of love. The joining of two families. Poetic nothings that float over the crowd like the floral arrangements—expensive and temporary.
A reading. First Corinthians thirteen: six.‘Love does notdelight in evil but rejoices with the truth.’
My spine straightens immediately. Recognition lands like a body check.
Natalie. I want to applaud her for skipping the two verses everyone expects—the soft-focusLove is patient, love is kind—and going straight for the forewarning no one else hears yet.
Blake is still grinning. Apparently not listening.
I watch Jane’s eyes widen. Then she’s watching Natalie—phone loose in her hand, thumb hovering over the screen.
The reading ends. The officiant looks at the crowd.
"Before we continue, the bride would like to say a few words." He passes the microphone to Natalie.
Blake's brow creases. "Nat?"
Natalie turns toward the guests. When she speaks, her voice carries across the venue with the clarity of someone who rehearsed this in the shower, in the mirror, in the dark hours between midnight and noon.
"There's something everyone needs to see." Natalie looks past Blake and gives Jane a small nod.
Jane taps her phone inconspicuously.
The screen behind the altar—the one rigged for a slideshow of the couple's love story, their first trip to Santorini flickers to a different feed.
Then Blake's voice fills the venue.
Not the charming, boardroom-polished version. The real one. The one I recorded in the King's Room two nights ago.
