My body moves before my thoughts finish forming.
Two strides. I close the distance from my groomsman position at his right and intercept from the side. My shoulder drives into his midsection—mid-torso, controlled, textbook. The kind of hit I've delivered a thousand times on ice, calibrated for maximum disruption with minimum damage.
Blake goes down. We hit the altar platform together. I land on top, one hand on his chest, the other pinning his right arm.
He writhes beneath me. Swings wild—half panic, half rage—and I catch it on my forearm, feel the impact buzz through bone.
One clean strike. Open-palm, heel of my hand, directly to his sternum. Not his face. Not his jaw. Center mass. The kind of impact that empties lungs without breaking bones.
"Stay down. Or I’ll show you what a real punch looks like.”
He gasps. Blinks. The fight leaves him like air from a punctured tire.
I pull back immediately. Hands up. Visible. Clear of his body. Controlled.
Same instinct as dropping the gloves after a clean hit. Show the ref you're done. Show the crowd you're in control. Let them decide who started it.
"He was going to hit her." My voice carries. Deliberate. Projected for the witnesses, the cameras, the record. "Everyone saw it."
Confirmations ripple through the crowd. Nods. Murmured agreements. A woman inthe second row: "He grabbed at her."
Security swarms, moving through the crowd with the efficient urgency of men who just earned their overtime.
I step back. Comply immediately—hands visible, posture open, no aggression.
Blake is hauled upright. Still gasping, face mottled, dress shirt torn at the collar from the impact.
He starts shouting—something about assault, lawsuits, his father's lawyers—and the sound gets smaller as security moves him toward the service road where the resort's private detail and two local police officers are already positioned.
Officers who are calm, practiced, probably accustomed to wealthy guests who believe the law is a suggestion. Quick statements from the nearest witnesses. Blake's wrists in zip-tie cuffs—the plastic kind that look temporary but feel permanent.
He's still shouting when they guide him into the security vehicle.
The press catches every second.
I don't watch him leave.
I'm scanning the crowd again.
For Jane.
She’s exactly where she was—fourth row, standing straight-backed and steady. She didn't run. Didn't flinch. Didn't move from her position because her job wasn't done until the last frame played and the last syllable landed and the bride was safe.
Our eyes meet.
She's okay.
I move toward Jane.
She’s shaking when I reach her. Not crying—operating on pure adrenaline, pupils blown, hands trembling around the phone
“Jane.” I take her phone and set it down. Take her face in my hands. “Look at me.”
She does. Focuses. “You’re bleeding.”
“Blake’s fingernail. Superficial.”
“He hit you?”
