Not at all.
The space had been reset since last night—the couches and chairs no longer in the large living room, all of it replaced with a long, rustic wood dining table. That might’ve been a good sign, a place for the breakfast they were meant to have after quickly running through the ceremony program in the courtyard, but the problem was, the table was totally blank. No centerpieces, no place settings.
And then there was the company. Griff and Layla didn’t seem to be the last to arrive—she didn’t spot the Nantes cousins, nor Miranda and Finance Guy. Michael’s uncle and cousin—she’d met them briefly last night—were there, but Damaris and Abram weren’t.
Most importantly: neither were Michael and Emily.
And those who were there did not look as though they expected the bride and groom to arrive anytime soon.
Or ever.
A quick scan of faces revealed varying degrees of bewilderment and concern, and that was before any of them even noticed Griffin and Layla.
Once that happened, at least a few expressions transformed: Rosie with an eyebrow raise, Fitz with a jaw-clench, Jamie—withhis eyes drifting down to their joined hands before coming back to Layla’s face—with a frown of…ofsomething. Judgment or disappointment or worry or some other thing he had no right to.
Robert cleared his throat, breaking the silence.
“Layla,” he said, the lack of nickname as sure a sign as anything else. “Michael and Emily are not here.”
I see that, she didn’t say.
“Their things are also no longer here.”
Layla swallowed, feeling Griff’s hand dampen in hers. Yesterday, after the spa, Emily and Michael both were relocating most of their things to their rooms here. Certainly all the things they would need for today’s events.
“Oh,” she said, and silence fell again, which she guessed meant that she was now as caught up as everyone else who’d arrived here this morning.
Layla darted her eyes to Rosie, who no longer had her eyebrows raised in surprise at seeing Layla and Griffin together. But still, her expression was speaking: notquiteas concerned as everyone else’s. Carefully neutral.
A very not-Rosie-like expression, and that’s when Layla knew.
That’s when Layla knew that Rosie—the maid of honor, of course the maid of honor, that’s how italwaysshould have been, from that very first morning after—already knew whatever was about to happen next. Rosie had probably been the one to tell Manon that the rehearsal was on, to get everyone here.
As if on cue, Layla’s phone blared again in her purse—god, she’d forgotten the pager notification noise—and she rushed to the chair where she’d set it, rifling through the front pocket to get to her phone. As she did, she became aware of other notifications, too: a ding there, a vibration over there, a trilling bell close by.
Everyonewas getting a message.
Even Griffin.
They were no longer holding hands—he’d dropped hers, or she’d dropped his during the frantic phone-silencing—and Layla’s were shaking as she swiped across her screen.
As she scrolled in silence over the same message she assumed everyone else was seeing, too.
Dear family,
Michael and I are so sorry to tell you that we have mutually decided not to be married today.
We owe you all a much longer explanation and a much fuller apology for bringing you so far away for this magical week, only to have it end this way. We promise we will be in contact with each of you individually to do that, as soon as we are able.
I have asked Rosie to begin canceling various services that were set up for today, and I insisted that she not inform anyone until we sent this message. Breakfast will still be served at the apartment shortly, and we ask that you do your best to enjoy yourselves and one another’s company in our absence.
By the time you receive this note, you should know that we are no longer in Paris. We are taking some time to make a decision about our respective futures.
We love you, and we thank you for supporting us throughout this past week, and in whatever comes next for us.
Emily & Michael
Layla wasaware, as she read, that there were reactions—a gasp giving way to a little sob from Manon, a soothing cluck from Robert. A “Well!” from Céline, a whispered “Which one is Rosie, again?” from Michael’s cousin, an unpleasant, gurgly squeak from someone whose sounds she did not know well enough to identify.
