Chapter Twenty-Three #2
The door to the main hall cracks open, and Hailey and I freeze.
“What are you doing here, Nora?” Hailey asks, coolly, her posture going rigid.
That’s right. I’m not asleep or being punked.
Nora Whitfield steps into the ballroom cautiously, her stance hesitant, striking green eyes wide with nervousness, and I wish I had it in me to be mad.
But I can’t even hold myself together.
A hysterical laugh stirs in my belly and explodes into the air. “Are you serious right now? You detonate my marriage, get knocked up by my ex-husband, and sic your #TeamNora fandom on me, and you’re tiptoeing in here? Oh, you are a piece of work , honey.”
“Ebony, I… I need to tell you the truth.”
I’m breathless all over again, gasping for air because … is she for real? “Listen, save yourself the trouble. I’ve moved on and I’m living my best life.”
The funniest part is, I thought when we finally ran into each other, I’d be overcome with hurt or surprised. At the very least, fall into a fit of angry hiccupping spasms. But no. I’m calm. Almost scarily so.
Nora nods repeatedly. “I know you are, and I’m so happy for you.”
But she doesn’t leave. Instead, she stands on the edge of the ballroom, her face twisted with…is it fear or indecision? I don’t know. So I feel like I need to put her out of her misery.
“Again,” I say, slower because it doesn’t seem to be clicking, “I’m good.” I shrug, confused. “Listen, if this is part of some Luxe Ladies twelve-step program, and you need to acknowledge the harm you’ve caused, or make amends, or whatever—”
“No, it’s just… I need to tell you the truth.” She takes a deep breath and steps farther into the room. Her fingers nervously twirl her purse strap as if she’s unsure where to start, but she needs to get something off her chest.
Hailey sighs and taps her diamond-encrusted wedding heel impatiently on the wooden floor, and I fear if I don’t save her from getting worked up on my behalf, the practice I-dos with Donovan may be a little too close to a seasoned marriage.
Without even looking at my watch, I flash Nora a deadpan look. “You’ve got three minutes,” I say.
She wastes no time.
“Okay, so when I met Julian, it was at that fundraiser two years ago. The Luxe Ladies introduced us, saying we were supposed to do a segment together about news anchors in Ellswood,” she starts, then goes on telling me the producers told her that Julian was legally separated from me, that we’d filed a separate maintenance motion.
“What?” I shoot her sharp, assessing look. “And you believed him?”
Hailey’s eyes narrow slightly.
“They showed me the document.” Nora’s voice shakes, but her gaze doesn’t waver. “It wasn’t until later that I learned it’d been rejected by the court. I had no idea about his gambling problem—”
Gambling problem?
“Wait.” I slice my hands through the air, then squeeze my eyes closed, taking a moment before I open them again. I glance at Hailey. “Can you—”
“Already on it,” she says, furiously tapping away on her phone, pulling up her browser to fact-check.
Over her shoulder, I follow along as she pulls up Georgia’s Superior Court website. After she searches Julian’s and my name together, there on the screen are two records. The separate maintenance filing and the rejection, dated two years ago.
Neither of which I knew about.
Wow, okaaay.
“Oh my goodness…” Hailey, clearly on the same page as me, toggles over to the filing requirements.
As the list populates, I skim over Georgia residents , evidence of a valid marriage , and no divorce pending , straight to the part where Julian was supposed to arrange for me to be personally served with the petition.
“Those damn messy producers…” Hailey continues reading. “They sniffed out trouble in paradise and pounced for a chance at scandalous TV.”
Lord, tell me it wasn ’t you, Zeek…
My gaze snaps to Nora. “So, the producers knew about this?”
She nods, her long, dark waves spilling over her slender shoulders.
“Yeah, they knew about his gambling and his ‘marital problems.’ So, you see, I swear, I didn’t know.
And by the time I found out, I was horrified but I—I was already…
falling for him.” She looks down, guilt written all over her face.
“So, he needed money, and they were making him, what, your love interest or something?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
The mere thought of caring about Julian and Nora feels like a distant memory.
I chew the inside of my cheek, utterly indifferent, detaching from this chapter of my life—from being a Livingston.
“I know I can’t undo any of it, but I’m really sorry,” Nora says, her voice small.
“I just thought you should know I never wanted to hurt you, and it’s over anyway.
He told me back in May he’d be getting his finances together with the insurance money from the Ellswood Mill fire, but after that stunt Cornelia pulled on The Morning Tea , announcing our engagement…
how he treated you and Hillary… I don’t want my baby to be part of that family. ”
“Interesting.” Hailey blinks way too many times to be natural.
Part of me is wondering if she’s also on the same wavelength, tracking dates. It’s awfully fortunate to know in May that you’re coming into a windfall of insurance money for a fire that didn’t happen until June thirteenth.
She thinks she’s so far beyond the Livingstons when her life—her business —has gone up in flames…
“Indeed,” I add, buzzing with pure, cold satisfaction.
Nora stares at me with her bright, pleading eyes, and I sense what she wants. She’s apologized. She’s explained. She’s trying to make things right.
While apologies mean nothing to me at this juncture, I respect the effort.
“Nora, you didn’t break up my family. Julian did,” I say. “He’s the one who lied, he’s the one who cheated, and he’s the one who dragged you into all this…the lies, the mess. Not you. So I’m not angry at you. I just don’t care anymore.”
“I…I understand,” Nora says, her voice light. “Thanks for hearing me out.”
She smiles and, without another word, turns away from Hailey and me. She doesn’t look back. She walks toward the main door to slip out of the manor as quietly as she came.
“Uh…” Hailey’s eyes go saucer-wide. “So, now you’re definitely my role model, because the way I would have thrown hands—”
“ Hailey! ” I laugh so hard, letting the moment of clarity and peace wash over me. It’s like I’m lighter, somehow. Unburdened, as I glance at my friend, this gorgeous bride-to-be.
Mrs. Winston peeks her head inside the terrace door and clears her throat as if she’s unsure what she just stumbled into. “Sorry to interrupt—just wanted to check in. Pastor needs to use the restroom and is wondering how much longer before the rehearsal starts.”
I toss Hailey a let’s do this look. “What do you think? You ready to go get these practice ‘I dos’ underway?”
A few minutes later, we finally make it out to the terrace and into the courtyard, where rows of guest chairs line a long aisle leading to the wedding arch. Tomorrow, it’ll be draped in flowers, a stunning focal point for the ceremony.
It takes a few minutes to get the pastor and wedding party, including all my exes—ex-husband, unhinged ex-mother-in-law, ex-best friend—settled and in place.
Once everything’s organized, though, I give a few last-minute instructions about guest seating arrangements and confirm Nelly and Hillary have the rings, and we’re off.
Hailey’s a mess of tears, staring at Donovan like it’s the real thing—which usually would make me say, Chill, save it for tomorrow .
Oddly, I love every minute of it.
We practice the processional a good handful of times, making sure the bridal party order and timing is on point. There’s a whole lot of “who stands where,” listening for the beat, and watching the couple approach the altar. Hailey and her stepdad are adorable, borderline skipping down the aisle.
Luckily, Donovan and his best man, Nelly, have had some practice before—thanks to my last wedding. They take their places, and boom, we’re ready for action.
My favorite part of the day? Listening to Hailey and Donovan saying their “improv vows.” Straight-faced, he promises not to steal the covers, not to get mad when she puts her cold feet on him, and to resist the urge to eat Doritos in quiet movie theaters.
So cute. And accurate. He’ll be there to laugh first whenever she falls, though, before he’ll help her up.
After my own heart, Hailey promises, with actual tears in her eyes, to use his razor on her legs, hijack his comfort sweatshirts, and scream in terror when encountering creepy crawlers.
And it might just be all this love and laughter in the air, but when my watch vibrates with a text notification, my heart flips as I see Linc’s name.
Lincoln
Hey, love, just wanted to check in and see what you’re craving for dinner tonight. Let me know and I’ll make it happen.
Love.
I’m breathless and missing him all over again, my mind stuck in that never-ending, swoopy B for Bridges .
Ebony Grace Bridges.
The spell doesn’t break until the pastor declares, “You may kiss the bride.”
Time snaps back with a thunderous rush, the atmosphere charged like a lightning strike, jolting me out of my stupor in time to see Donovan getting really serious about the task at hand.
“I do,” he says on a low growl before he cradles Hailey’s face in his hands, kissing her with his entire body. And I mean all six-foot-infinity of him.
Lord, it’s a real, full-tongue, not-safe-for-wedding-guest-eyes, whimper-and-slow-whine fest, requiring me to intervene to get us to the recessional.
Thank goodness the flower girl and ring bearer aren’t here.
I don’t think there’s a cool collar among us. Which is why I tap out a quick reply to Linc.
Ebony
I’m craving you, my love. I’m leaving in ten. Be ready, because I’m starving.
A small, mischievous laugh bubbles up inside me, and I feel flirty and fizzy, like I’m a bottle of champagne about to pop. Thankfully, finally , the caterer gives me the nod, saving us all by the bell.
“Dinner is served fireside in the patio hearth room,” I announce to the guests.
Relief rushes through me as I fan a clammy palm out and let the couple lead the way toward the warm, inviting space.
It’s dancing with the incandescent glow of string lights and the soft, flickering embers of the fire.
The rich scent of burning wood and savory, sizzling steak fills the air, mingling with earthy, sweet seasonal vegetables.
Jazz plays below the easy din of conversation and merriment.
Once everyone is settled, technically, my job here is done. They’ll eat, laugh, and toast with the bride and groom. Between the catering staff and the manor servers, everyone will be fine.
But as laughter ripples across the long table and the caterer hands me her tablet, requesting for me to sign her service and gratuity acknowledgment forms, my chest tightens all over again.
I look at the thin signature line sprawled across the bottom of the page, and my hand stalls.
It’s almost like my hand, of its own autonomy, refuses to write that name.
Legally, I’m still a Livingston, but the surname no longer fits the person I’ve become.
I cannot tie myself back to a life I’ve already outgrown.
I swallow, glancing up at this family I used to quietly be a part of. I’m reminded how I put decorum and etiquette first. I put his family dynasty before me and mine.
He had ten years to change—for better or worse.
But so did I.
No more clinging to the shadows of a past I’ve left behind. No more attaching myself to a family that tried to erase me.
The funny thing is, as I sign my first and middle name, stalling again, my guards are up. Not from anyone in particular but from setting firm boundaries. For the first time in the longest time, it’s about my intuition, a quietly undeniable sense of self.
So, as I set my emotions aside and sign a hard period in place of a last name, I inform the caterer, “I’ve recently shortened my signature,” and hand back her tablet feeling a renewed sense of clarity, knowing exactly what I want.