“How did it get out?” she fumes, stilettos clicking against the tiled floor as she paces. I’m learning this is her stress response—angrily stomping and somehow looking sexy while doing it. “Who leaked it?”
We’ve tucked ourselves away in a small back room in the reception venue, a space that was likely meant for newly wedded couples to escape the chaos of their big day and have a moment alone. The irony is certainly not lost on me.
“It was an anonymous source, according to the articles I’ve seen so far,” I answer from my spot on the small sofa.
Between my own quick googling and the overload of links my assistant has sent me—which tipped me off in the first place—I’ve figured out that the person who sold the story has to have been at our wedding. The pictures that accompaniedthe articles weren’t the exact ones I found on my camera roll, but they’re close. Like whoever took them on my phone immediately pulled out their own and snapped more.
“But they were at the chapel with us,” Stella pushes. “Ourphotographer.” She spits the last word like it’s poison.
“They were. But that could have been anyone. Another couple getting hitched, an employee, some random person who followed us inside…It’s impossible to know.”
She lifts her phone, scrolling before reading aloud, “ ‘According to the source, the couple proclaimed they were “ecstatic” to be getting married, even though the bride swapped around the groom’s hyphenated surname in her vows before correcting herself in a fit of giggles. Baldwin was set to marry French businessman Étienne Beauchamp just over two weeks ago, but the wedding was called off at the last second. The source says they were “shocked” to see Baldwin move on so quickly but that they wished the new couple well.’ ” Stella looks over at me, her brow scrunched. “ ‘They were shocked.’ Doesn’t that sound like it’s someone who knows me?”
I shrug, not having gleaned that from the quote. “Anyone who heard about your other wedding would probably say the same. Itiskind of shocking.”
I’ve put my foot in my mouth and her glare confirms it.
“But that doesn’t matter,” I follow up quickly. It’s time to change the subject. “Tell me how you want to handle this and I’ll follow your lead.”
Stella makes to answer, but the phone buzzing in her hand distracts her. “Sorry, I need to take this,” she mumbles before turning her back to me and answering.
“You’remarried?” a woman screeches, loud enough for me to hear without the call even on speaker. “What thefuck, Stella?”
Stella desperately tries to lower the volume as she shuffles toward the corner. It doesn’t do much.
“Why am I reading about this on TMZ instead of you telling me?” the woman demands. “Is this for real?”
“Lower your voice, Mika,” Stella hisses, and I sadly can’t hear the rest of the conversation from there.
This Mika person is barely giving Stella the chance to get a word in edgewise, though. There are plenty of cut-off sentences and stressed reassurances that she’ll tell Mika everything when she can. By the time she hangs up, she’s dazed and unsteady on her feet.
“Things are…not good,” she says, pressing a hand to the wall to stabilize herself. “My best friend says she found out about the wedding from one of the upper-level staff members at my company, which means…” She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Which means thateveryoneat my company is likely to find out soon, including my shareholders.”
I don’t know the ins and outs of her business, but it’s sounding like this is going to cause a problem. “What percentage of the company do you own?” I ask warily. If her board of directors can get rid of her, thennot goodis a vast understatement.
“Fifty-one percent,” she says. “So they can’t oust me. But they can make my life hell if they don’t believe in my leadership abilities.”
I won’t say I know too much about business, but I know enough from growing up around my family’s hospitality company to understand this could be career-ruining if her board decides to jump ship.
“It’s just a silly accidental marriage,” I try to reassure. “You were at a hen do. Crazier things have happened on those. I’m sure they can forgive you that little lapse in judgment.”
She snorts humorlessly. “I think they’re going to focusentirely on thelapse in judgmentpart. This shows that I’m irresponsible. That I can’t be trusted. And…” She trails off, taking a moment to wet her deep crimson lips. “This isn’t the first misstep I’ve had lately. I didn’t tell you the whole story of what happened after my ex left me.” She lets out a humorless laugh. “I’m surprised you haven’t seen the video yet, honestly.”
“I haven’t looked you up,” I confess, which is a bit silly to not have done at this point. “It felt like an invasion of privacy.”
But now I’m wishing I had becausewhatvideo is she talking about?
She blows out a breath and looks back down at her phone, tapping at the screen, then hands the device to me. “Pressplay.”
The cover photo of the video is of a drunk Stella staring into the camera, a nearly overflowing glass of red wine in her hand. From what I can see, she’s fully dressed—or at least the black rollneck sweater gives that illusion—so that rules out one of the horrible ideas that popped to mind. Plus, it’s only a minute long, which I hope means she wasn’t able to pack too much into it.
I pressplay. There are a few seconds of silence—so far, so good—before Stella leans in to the camera, nearly spilling wine as she does. And then she starts talking.
“Oh,” I exhale, eyes wide, as I take in her ranting. “This video is…”
The real-life Stella groans as the one on-screen tells the world that love isa made-up, steaming pile of bullshit, and that men aredick-waving sadistswho get off on making women love them, only to leave in the end. At least, that’s the gist of it. Her speech has a few more-colorful words than that.
I watch the rest of the video in silence. It ends with an emphatic “And fuck the French! All y’all suck. And macarons aren’t even good!”
