Then it hits me: mid-brunch yesterday, I popped into Emma’s room to help her wrangle a false eyelash off the ceiling (don’t ask), and I must’ve left the dress draped over her armchair.
Emma, who’s barely said a single word to me since the day we met. I don’t even know if sheremembers my name.
I yank open the wardrobe again, not for the missing dress (which is obviously living its best life elsewhere), but for my emergency garment of shame: a pink, fluffy dressing gown that screamsmenopausal mumbut at least covers the essentials.
I tie the sash with dignity I absolutely do not possess and storm towards the door.
I barrel down the corridor, gown flapping dramatically behind me like I’m starring in a deranged castle-set hormone replacement advert.
“Barbie chic, Cheese Queen?” Karl calls, grinning from where he’s standing casually next to a suit of armour.
I flip him off mid-stride. Nearly trip. “This is why people elope!” I shout back, dodging a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and narrowly avoiding a tiara abandoned in my path like a royal booby trap.
Emma’s room is a war zone. There’s fake tan smeared on the mirror, foundation-caked tissues carpeting the floor, and someone curling their hair with what I’malmost certainis a vibrator.
A makeup artist is arguing with Devon yoga Brenda, who turns out to be Lily’s terrifyingly chic aunt, and is brandishing two completely different mood boards and declaring that Lily will “simplypop” in both.
“Welcome to glam-ageddon,” someone mutters from behind a cloud of dry shampoo.
I spot my dress draped over an armchair, right where I left it, like an absolute moron.
“Bless you all and whatever saints you’re praying to,” I mumble, diving for the satin like it’s the Holy Grail.
Just as I’m about to make my escape, someone calls out through the haze.
“Hey, Hayley, have you seen Lily?”
I freeze mid-step. “Lily?”
“Yeah,” the bridesmaid says, glancing up from her unevenly bronzed face. “She went to grab something from her room ages ago and hasn’t come back. She’s next for makeup.”
I blink at her, thrown. I don’t even know this girl’s name, we didn’t exchange a single word during the hen do, and yet sheknows mine?Fabulous. I’m now probably the girl whose gossip made it to the group chat I’m not in.
“No… haven’t seen her,” I manage.
A flicker of dread curls in my stomach, not full-blown panic, just that first ominous violin in a horror soundtrack. Technically, I was meant to join the bridal glam squad in the main suite, but after last night, the idea of communal curling and forced cheerfulness made my soul itch.
“I’ll keep an eye out,” I say, clutching the dress like a shield, and retreat from the madhouse.
I take the stairs two at a time, gripping my dress like a parachute mid-crash.
As I round the corner toward my room, I stop dead.
Tyler.
Leaning against the wall outside his room, adjusting a cufflink like he’s prepping for a GQ cover shoot. Full tux. Black tie. Shirt starched to sin. Shoes polished to an unreasonable standard.
He looks so good, my left fallopian tube just updated its will.
He glances up, and everything stills.
Our eyes lock. My breath catches. The hallway seems to shrink, castle noise fading until it’s just the two of us suspended in this moment like it matters.
Because it does.
He takes one slow step forward, something tentative flickering across his face.
And then I remember what I’m wearing.
