Except the parking lot was chaos.
The country club was 40 minutes away, manicured lawns and tasteful signs saying “Whitlock Wedding” with arrows.
Except the parking lot was chaos.
Cars half on the grass. People in suits and dresses clustered outside, whispering.
Inside, the reception hall looked wrecked.
Chairs overturned. A tablecloth hanging crooked. A centerpiece smashed, petals and glass all over the floor. Champagne spilled in sticky patches.
Her updo was falling apart.
Not an accident.
“Larkin!”
Mrs. Whitlock hurried over.
Her updo was falling apart. Mascara streaks. She grabbed my hands like I was the EMT.
“Thank God you came,” she said.
“She was never serious about him.”
“What happened?” I asked.
She pulled me close, lowering her voice.
“That girl,” she hissed. “Maren. She was never serious about him.”
I blinked.
“One of her bridesmaids, Ellie, came to me this morning. In tears. Showed me messages. Screenshots.”
She looked almost pleased through her outrage.
“He confronted her.”
“Maren’s been seeing another man,” she said. “Laughing with him about how easy Sayer is. How she’d ‘enjoy the ring and see how long she could ride it.’”
My stomach twisted. Again.
“Did Sayer see them?” I asked.
“He confronted her,” she said. “She called him boring, said she didn’t want to be tied down ‘to a man with a mom like his,’ and left. In her dress.”
“So the wedding is off.”
I pictured it and, against my will, let out a tiny snort.
Mrs. Whitlock squeezed my hands.
“We can’t let this ruin him,” she said. “People are here. Family. His boss. To cancel would be humiliating.”
“So the wedding is off,” I said.
“For now,” she said. “But it doesn’t have to be a disaster.”
“Larkin, you always loved him.”
She pulled back to look me over, head to toe.
Her eyes lit with something that made my skin crawl.
“Larkin, you always loved him,” she said. “You were loyal. Good to him. And look at you now—you’re beautiful. You match him.”
There it was again.
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