I swallow it down, force my expression into something serene and appropriate, and continue my measured walk down the aisle. One foot in front of the other. Bouquet held at the precise angle Monica demonstrated during our bridesmaids' boot camp last month. Shoulders back, chin up, smile soft but present.
My dress rustles with each step. The organ music swells. Somewhere to my left, Aunt Carol dabs at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.
But I feel his eyes on me the entire way. That unwavering, intense focus prickling my skin with awareness and my breath catch in my throat. His gaze tracks my movement like a physical touch, burning through the layers of silk and tulle and whatever structural undergarments are currently keeping my breasts in place.
The reception unfolds in a blur of champagne toasts and clinking glasses and the DJ announcing the wedding party like we're prize fighters entering a ring.
"And the Maid of Honor, Colletta Fears, accompanied by Best Man Derek Stillwell."
I paste on a smile that feels like it might crack my face and accept Derek's offered arm. He's pale. Sweating despite the temperature-controlled tent. His hand trembles slightly where it rests on my elbow, and he won't make eye contact.
Whatever Kruk told him in that parking lot this morning, it worked.
We take our places at the head table. Derek sits as far from me as physically possible while still occupying the same bench, practically plastered against the other groomsman. He keeps his eyes on his plate, his champagne glass, the floral centerpiece. Anywhere but me.
The savage part of my brain that usually stays dormant and well-behaved does a little victory dance.
Monica's new husband means the first toast. He's a nice guy. The bar for my sister's romantic partners is unfortunately low, set by a series of previous disasters that include but are not limited to: a failed musician who lived in his parents' garage, an aspiring actor who kept getting arrested for public indecency,and a crypto bro who lost her savings in something called DogeMoonRocket.
He is boring in the way that stability often is, reliable, predictable, safe. He treats Monica like she personally hung every star in the sky, like she's something precious and irreplaceable instead of the hot mess we both know she can be.
He's absolutely, unequivocally perfect for her.
I tune out the speech, scanning the crowd until I find Kruk. He's claimed a position along the far wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Not sitting. Not eating. Just watching.
Guarding.
My phone buzzes in the tiny, useless clutch Monica insisted matched my dress. I fumble it, check the screen.
Unknown Number:The valet is incompetent. I moved the car to a more defensible position.
I stare at the message. Type back with slightly champagne-clumsy fingers.
Me:Did you intimidate a valet
Unknown Number:Affirmative. He parked it in a location vulnerable to ambush.
Me:It's a WEDDING
Unknown Number:Exactly. High-profile target. Multiple entry points. Inadequate perimeter security.
The giggle escapes before I can stop it. I slap a hand over my mouth, but it's too late. The table goes quiet. Monica's new mother-in-law gives me a look that could freeze wine.
"Sorry," I whisper. "Tickle in my throat."
Brad continues his speech. Something about knowing Monica was the one when she alphabetized his spice rack on their second date. It's sweet. It's romantic. It's completely eclipsed by the fact that I'm texting a paranoid orc who just repositioned our getaway vehicle.
Me:Thank you for not killing anyone today
Unknown Number:Day isn't over.
Me:KRUK
Unknown Number:Joking. Mostly.
I bite my lip hard, fighting another laugh. Tuck my phone away before I cause another scene. Focus on my champagne glass, on the speeches, on being the perfect Maid of Honor that Monica deserves.
But I feel his attention on me like a physical touch, warm and possessive and constant.
