“I hit him harder.” I check her over. “Are you hurt? Did anyone touch you?”
"I'm okay." Her eyes search my face, then drop to my right hand. The knuckles are red but not split. "Are you?"
I flex my hand once. "I'm fine."
"The video was perfect."
"You were perfect."
A small laugh escapes her—breathless, disbelieving. "We did it."
I want to pull her against me. Want to bury my face in her hair and hold on until my hands stop shaking with residual adrenaline. But we're public. Cameras are still rolling. So I let my thumb brush the inside of her arm—once, slow—and watch her shiver.
"You tackled him," she says.
"He wasn't touching her." I hold her gaze. "Or you."
Her eyes go bright. She doesn't speak for a moment.
"I need to check on Natalie," she says finally.
"Go."
She crosses the wreckage of the ceremony—scattered programs, toppled chair, a crushed orchid from the altar arrangement—and disappears into the cluster of bridesmaids surrounding Natalie near the bridal tent.
I watch from thirty feet away. Close enough to intervene. Far enough to let Jane do what Jane does.
Natalie sees her coming. The composure she held through the entire exposure—through Blake's rage, through the crowd's reaction, through the takedown—cracks the second Jane reaches her.
She breaks into tears.
Jane catches her. Arms around the bride's shoulders, holding her steady while the white gown pools in the sand and the veil trails behind them like a surrender flag.
I can't hear what Jane says. But I see Natalie nod. See her grip tighten on Jane's arms. See the bridesmaids close ranks around both of them—Barbie's hand on Natalie's back, Katelyn crying openly, Merritt and Sloane flanking like bodyguards.
Natalie's father approaches. Shakes Jane's hand with both of his. Says something that makes Jane's chin wobble before she steadies it.
Then the Ashfords collect their daughter—gently, efficiently, the way wealthy families collect their wounded—and Natalie is guided toward the bridal suite, her father's arm around her waist, her mother smoothing the veil, the bridesmaids forming a protective wall between her andevery camera still pointed in her direction.
Jane walks back to me.
Her mascara has smudged under one eye. Her hair is starting to escape its pins. The green dress has a sand stain on the hem.
She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"She's okay," Jane says. "Shaken. But okay. Her parents are taking her home tonight. Private plane that was meant for the honeymoon."
"Good."
The empty altar. The scattered chairs. The reception tent that won’t be needed. The string quartet packing up with the silent efficiency of people who’ve already been paid.
Guests file out in clusters—some shocked, some gossiping, some already on their phones to publicists and lawyers and tabloid contacts. Press is being corralled by resort security. Caterers hover outside the reception tent with trays of untouched canapés, waiting for instructions that won’t come.
“We really did it,” Jane says.
“You freed Natalie.”
“You punched Blake.”
