There’s nothing funny about this shit.
“That’s alright.” Frank pats my shoulder. “I’ll try to work on something with you tonight, or we’ll do a joint toast together. Yeah?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“You’ll do it.” He lowers his voice. “Your father has given you everything and more in this life, and a journalist from every major network and newspaper is here to cover this wedding, so the son of Aidan Dawsonwillbe giving a toast.”
I ignore his empty threat and keep my eyes on Emily.
“It’s such a wonderful idea to have the wedding at the estate,” the woman across from me says to her. “I bet every woman in the county will be itching to rent it out for her own happily-ever-after the moment the pictures hit all the magazines.”
“I’m sure…” Emily pushes a lump of potatoes across her plate.
Without looking my way, she laughs politely at all the wrong moments and thanks guests who barely listen.
She says “I’m fine” like she’s done it a thousand times before, like it’s part of her DNA whenever someone asks if she’s alright.
She twists her napkin around one finger again and again, slow and tight, like she’s barely holding herself together.
All around us, the table glows with golden light and curated floral arrangements. Jazz hums softly from overhead, and crystal glasses gleam under chandeliers. It’s perfect. It’s picturesque.
It’s suffocating.
And I sit there, counting every second I can’t touch her.
Every breath I can’t take without it hurting.
When the desserts start circulating and the chatter thickens, she excuses herself with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. Herchair barely makes a sound as she slips away from the table, heading toward the back entrance alone.
She brushes past my shoulder as she goes, and I almost reach out—almost grab her wrist just to make herseeme again.
But I don’t.
And that restraint burns like acid.
Frank says something else—probably a joke, definitely not worth remembering—but I don’t hear it.
I push back my chair and leave.
Because if I sit here one more minute pretending like this is okay, I will come undone.
26
EMILY
Tap! Tap! Tap!
I sit up in bed and glance toward the window. The forecast didn’t call for rain, but maybe the universe is sending a hailstorm on my behalf.
Slipping off the mattress, I knot my robe and move toward the glass.
There’s no sign of a storm—no clouds, no rainfall, no trace of hail on the landing.
Tap! Tap! Tappp!
The sound pulls me toward the other end of the balcony, toward the side I usually avoid this time of night.
I scan the beach, and then I see him.
