It’s real.
He already knew me…
My brain flashes back, to the mask, the one that had felt almost too perfect, too pointed. It wasn’t a coincidence. It was a choice.
“You…” My voice is barely a whisper. “You chose the mask, didn’t you?”
He nods without hesitation. “As soon as Ben let it slip that Lily had meddled, that she was pairing us up, I went looking. And when I saw that mask… I knew it had to be yours.”
He holds my gaze, voice softer now. “It was beautiful… A little too much. But beautiful.”
My throat tightens. Words won’t come.
Before I can reply, before I can even connect my brain to my vocal cords, someone shouts from the shore.
“My darlings! Look this way, and for God’s sake smile! Less guillotine, more gondola!”
Peacock waves from the shore like we’re about to re-enactThe Notebook.
“Hold it! Yes, perfect, tortured romance, but make it sexy!” he calls, practically vibrating with glee.
I force a grin, my face twitching with the effort. Tyler lets out a chuckle that doesn’t quite land, his eyes stay locked on mine until Peacock claps, delighted, and the shutter clicks.
We row back in silence. No quips. No drama. Just the creak of the boat, the soft slap of water, and everything unsaid between us, crowding the air.
When we reach the dock, I climb out first, legs wobbly as if I’ve been at sea for hours, not minutes.
I turn to say something, anything, but the boat is empty.
Tyler’s already gone.
Vanished.
Always when I’m about to ask why.
Chapter 21
Operation Nora
Hayley
Another day, another updo for a wedding that’s not mine.
I’m parked at the creaky vanity, staring at my reflection. My under-eye circles are issuing an early warning about the Queen of Scots cocktails, and Helen’s smug comments are still buzzing like wasps, even after Tyler’s dramatic ‘I know who you are’ revelation.
I dab at my cheeks with a sponge like I know what I’m doing, which I don’t. The only things holding me together right now are concealer and the knowledge that this hell is nearly over.
Behind me, the castle thrums with wedding chaos. Footsteps pounding down halls, someone wailing about lost cufflinks anddistant shrieks over rogue flower girls. I swirl my brush in bronzer with all the enthusiasm of someone powdering a corpse.
Still, the show must go on.
I stand, ready to wrestle myself into the vaguely bridesmaid-shaped piece of unforgiving satin I agreed to wear out of loyalty and mild blackmail.
Only, plot twist, the dress isn’t there.
“No, no, no.” I fling open the wardrobe. Empty. I check behind the bathroom door.
Nada.
