And honestly? That felt true. She wasn’t dramatic or overly flustered, just pleasantly tipsy, a little sparkly around the edges, and enjoying the moment more than she’d meant to.
At the head of the table, Emma was directing conversation like a symphony conductor. She had the polished ease of someone used to microphones and panel discussions, her posture relaxed, her smile already pitched for cameras that weren’t even here yet.
Her composure was natural, but her eyes were always calculating, weighing tone and optics even over lunch. It was impressive, in a slightly terrifying way.
“I’ve just confirmed some special media arrivals for tomorrow,” she announced smoothly, topping up her water glass with the kind of effortless poise you only acquire after years of PR training. “We’ll do the room tours early so the photographers can capture everything before the rehearsal dinner. Caroline wants the feature to feel ‘intimate yet aspirational’.”
“Room tours?” I repeated before I could stop myself.
Since when was Emma in charge of the press?
Emma nodded brightly. “Just a quick sweep for an article I’m planning. I sent them the floor plan last night, so they know which rooms to focus on.”
My pulse ticked upward.
Floor plans? Last night?
I forced a pleasant face even as my stomach twisted. “Of course,” I said, keeping my tone breezy, light, professional. “Sounds efficient.”
Efficient. And disastrous.
Because those same plans included the layout of the entire guest wing, doors, corridors, private access points. Including the exact location of my room.
And Emma had sent that information out last night.
To people I couldn’t account for.
I put on a smile and nodded along like this was just another detail in a normal day.
But inside, something uneasy unfurled.
Conversation swelled again, Elaine complimented the salmon, someone else compared wine notes like connoisseurs.
The breeze picked up, carrying the faint scent of rosemary and sea salt from the nearby coast. On the surface, everything seemed normal again. Sunlight, wine, polite conversation. A table full of people who had stepped straight out of a luxury lifestyle magazine.
Emma raised her glass for a toast, “To love, luck, and beautiful beginnings.”
I forced a sip of water and kept my smile in place.
Because under the laughter and the clinking glasses, one thing had become painfully clear.
Someone at this picture-perfect table was lying.
Emma with her secret floor plans. Lucas with his sunrise wanderings. Sophie with her dreamy, distracted staring. Even Caroline, who kept fidgeting with her napkin like she had something she wasn’t saying.
I set my glass down, pulse thudding, and took a slow breath.
Brilliant.
I was starting to look at every single one of them like they might be the culprit.
Chapter Twelve
The post-lunch lull had settled over the estate like a sigh. Guests were tucked away for naps or in-room massages, the caterers were clinking trays in the kitchen, and the only real sound came from the birds gossiping in the trees.
Even the chauffeurs, jackets off and ties loosened, had given in to the quiet, dozing in the shade by the cars.
Noah had lent me his office for the week so Cleo and I could get through the mountain of wedding logistics without tripping over guests or floral arrangements.
