I watched the light from the dining room shimmer across her face.
Caroline stared down at her glass. “She’s trying to ensure that my decision to marry someone outside of the usual circle, doesn’t mean we’ve lost our standing. Every flower, every menu decision, even every word of my own father’s speech feels like part of the performance.”
Her voice was almost clinical, the tone of someone used to presenting evidence, even in her own defence.
I glanced at her hands, elegant and still now. “Well, you’re not the first to feel that way before a wedding.”
She smiled faintly. “You make it sound normal.”
“It is,” I said. “It’s a high-pressure production laced with emotional landmines and, in your case, the media. Honestly, it’s a miracle anyone makes it through a wedding without at least briefly considering setting fire to their own dress.”
That earned a real chortle this time, small but genuine. She took another small sip, so I went on.
“I once had a bride who called off her ceremony twenty minutes before walking down the aisle because her mother-in-law changed the floral arch at the last minute. The bride locked herself in the bathroom with a bottle of Prosecco and a cheese platter.”
Caroline blinked at me. “What happened?”
“Oh, she married him a month later. New flowers, no mother-in-law in sight. They’re still together. Though she did send me aChristmas card last year that just said, ‘Still not speaking to his mother, and the photos turned out great.’”
Caroline smiled into her glass. “I can see the appeal of eloping.”
“You wouldn’t be the first to consider it. I had one couple who ran away mid-rehearsal dinner during an argument between their respective parents. Posted a TikTok from Bali a week later. It said, ‘We figured this was the only way to keep everyone happy.’ Their parents still don’t speak to each other, but they seem blissfully fine.”
She chortled again, “You’re full of horror stories.”
“Part of the deal I’m afraid,” I said lightly. “But it’s also why I can tell when something’s normal wedding stress and when it’s… not.”
That line hung between us for a few seconds. Her smile lingered but didn’t reach her eyes this time.
Then, softer: “I guess it’s not just the wedding. It’s James. He keeps telling me that we’ll laugh about all of this later. And maybe he’s right.” She hesitated, gaze flicking towards the light spilling from the dining room windows. “But what if he’s not?”
The air between us stilled.
“Well, what makes you think that?” I asked carefully.
She rubbed at her bare wrist where her bracelet had left a faint imprint. “He’s a good man. Kind. He grounds me. But lately, every conversation turns into an argument. I say I’m exhausted, and he tries to fix it. I tell him I need space, and he assumes he’s done something wrong.”
Her voice caught as she spoke. “I hate that we’re both trying so hard to make it perfect that we’ve forgotten to enjoy it together.”
I studied her profile, sharp, beautiful, composed even now. There it was: that fine crack beneath the polish. Not a collapse, just a fissure.
“Caroline,” I said kindly, “you’re not alone in this. Everyone here wants the same thing, for it to go well. But that doesn’t mean you have to carry all of it on your shoulders.”
She smiled, but her eyes were glassy. “You make it sound simple.”
“It’s not,” I admitted. “But sometimes it helps to remember this isn’t a courtroom. It’s your life.”
That earned me a genuine smile.
After a moment, she stood, slipping her heels back on. “I should go back in before Mother starts a search party.”
“Good idea. I’m not licensed for hostage negotiations after eleven p.m.”
That brought one more chuckle, faint but real. “Thank you, Holly. Really.”
I watched her disappear into the ambient light of the dining room, her posture straightening the moment she crossed the threshold, the performance resumed.
I lingered a moment longer, looking up at the stars again. Because I’d seen this before, the tiny cracks that start under pressure, invisible until the light hits just right.
