Chapter 31 Liv
LIV
Iwatch Blair through the windows as she paces outside, one hand running through her hair in a gesture I'm beginning to recognize as stress. She's on the phone for a long time—one call, then another, then another.
"Everything alright?" Mom asks, following my gaze.
"I don't know… I'm sure it's fine," I say, though uncertainty gnaws at me. She’s been on and off the phone for a while now. Could it be another woman? Great. Now I'm getting jealous.
Finally, Blair ends her last call and heads back inside.
Instead of returning to our table, she goes straight to the manager.
They have a brief conversation, and he nods, gesturing toward the back of the restaurant.
Then she moves to lean against the wall near the entrance, typing furiously on her phone, her brow furrowed in concentration.
I try to focus on the conversation at our table—something about Emma and David's honeymoon itinerary—but I keep glancing toward her. She's still typing, occasionally pausing to read something on her screen before typing again.
Minutes pass. She doesn't look up. She doesn't come back to the table.
I can't take it anymore. Isn't this what a real girlfriend would do? Go and find out what's happening?
I excuse myself from the table and make my way toward her.
"Is everything okay?" I ask. "You look upset."
She shakes her head, her expression tight with worry. "It's Danny. He's had an accident. He's in the hospital."
"Oh, Blair…" My stomach drops. "Is he going to be okay?"
"I don't know," she says, running a hand through her hair again. "I'm so sorry, but I have to leave."
"Of course," I say immediately. "I can call you a cab to the airport—"
"No need, I've already taken care of it." Her phone buzzes and she glances at the screen. "Sorry, I have to take this." She heads back outside, pressing the phone to her ear.
I turn to the manager, who's still standing nearby.
"Excuse me," I say. "Do you know if the taxi is on its way? For my girlfriend?"
The manager frowns. "A taxi? No, Ms. Davis’s assistant arranged for a helicopter. It should be landing shortly."
I blink. "Ms. Davis?"
"Yes." He glances at his notes. "Ms. Blair Davis. She has a retainer with a private aviation service. I’ve just given them permission to land in the field."
“But she’s…” My voice trails off as my mind starts spinning. Davis. Not Miller. An assistant. And a helicopter. A private aviation retainer.
I'm still trying to process this when Blair pushes back through the entrance. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her jaw tight. She strides directly to me, cups my face in her hands, and kisses me.
The kiss happens so fast I barely register it. One second I'm standing here, utterly confused from what the manager just told me, and the next her mouth is on mine. My hands instinctively reach up to touch her face, but she pulls away and steps back.
"I'll explain everything when we're back in New York, okay? I promise," she says, clearly panicked. "I have to get to the hospital."
"Wait," I manage. "Blair—"
But she's running through the restaurant, heading for the back exit. She bursts through the rear doors.
My cousin Jake is staring after her with raised brows. The rest of my family has stood up now.
"What's going on?" Mom asks as I approach her.
"Her brother’s in hospital," I say. "In North Carolina."
Blair crosses the terrace, jumps over the fence, then continues to run toward the middle of the field.
"Uh, hate to break it to her," Jake says, "but North Carolina's the other way."
I shoot him a look that could kill. "It's not funny, Jake."
"I'm just saying," Jake holds up his hands defensively. "If she's planning to run the whole way, she'll need directions."
That's when I hear it. A low, rhythmic thumping that's getting louder by the second, coming from somewhere overhead.
"Well, I'll be damned," Grandma Ruth mutters. "Would you look at that."
"Holy fuck," Uncle Pete says, and nobody bothers to scold him for the language because we're all staring like kids watching a parade.
The helicopter appears—sleek and black with blinking navigation lights. It circles once, then begins to descend toward the exact spot where Blair is waving.
The downdraft from the rotors flattens the field in a wide circle. Even through the closed doors, the thunderous roar of the engine is deafening.
The aircraft touches down and Blair sprints toward it. The rotors are still spinning when she yanks open the door. For just a split second, she turns back toward the restaurant—toward us—and even from this distance I can see her scanning the windows.
Then she climbs inside, the door closes, and the helicopter lifts off. Within seconds, it's just another set of blinking lights in the distance, disappearing toward the south.
The silence that follows is absolute. Nobody speaks. We just stand there staring out at the empty field.
I sink into my chair while my heart hammers against my ribs.
"She must be doing really well for herself," Uncle Pete mumbles, scratching his head. "Those things cost thousands of dollars an hour."
I try to calculate the timeline, to make sense of what just happened. Blair got that first phone call twenty minutes ago? Thirty at the most? And within that timeframe, she arranged for a helicopter to pick her up in rural Maryland? Who is this woman?
I thought I knew parts of her—the struggling personal trainer, the woman who was sweet and funny and seemed genuinely interested in me. The woman who kissed me like it meant something. But personal trainers don't have helicopters on speed dial. And her last name isn’t Miller.
I start to catalogue all the small inconsistencies I ignored—her expensive-looking clothes, her knowledge of wine, the way she handled the cake situation so easily, her familiarity with property prices.
The betrayal hits me sharp and sudden, like a knife between my ribs. It reminds me of my wedding day. That sickening realization that everything I thought I knew was wrong. She's not who she said she was. She's someone else entirely.
Embarrassment creeps in alongside the betrayal.
My family is going to find out I brought a complete stranger to Emma's wedding, that I've been lying to them about having a girlfriend.
They're going to realize I don't know anything about this woman—not her job, not her background, not even her real name.
I look up and realize everyone in the restaurant is staring at me. My family, the other diners, the staff. And at their table by the window, Andy and Rachel are watching too.
I can't sit here and face their questions. I can't explain what's going on. A familiar urge hits me, the same one I felt standing in that wedding dress years ago—the desperate need to run.
"I'm sorry," I say, grabbing my purse. "I have to go."