36 - Jess
Jess
The gravel of the Manford Mansion driveway crunched under our quick footsteps as we ran up the manicured stone path toward the towering brick facade.
Hunter’s fingers worked double-time at his collar, adjusting a black bowtie that sat slightly crooked against his linen shirt.
My own breath came in ragged puffs, the emerald silk dress rustling against me while my fingers made a futile attempt to tame the wind-swept curls, the pins refusing to hold them in place.
An usher in a pristine morning suit blocked the main entrance, his posture rigid as he held a leather-bound guest ledger. His arm shot out to halt our forward momentum. "Name, please."
"Jessica Seymore," the words left my lips in an out-of-breath rush.
The usher turned a page, his index finger tracing down a column of neat calligraphy. He perused the lines for a painful beat, his eyes moving left to right before he looked back up with a definitive shake of his head. He said nothing, his lips pressed into a thin, professional line.
"What? Why are you shaking your head?"
Hunter stepped up beside me, his shoulder a comforting weight against mine as his face split into an easy, disarming grin. "I know we're late, but it's only by two minutes. I'm sure the bride is yet to make her grand entrance anyway. Aren't they always fashionably late?"
The light humor failed to diffuse the stern look on the man’s face.
"We won't cause a disturbance," I jumped back in, the panic beginning to coat the back of my throat. "Just slip us in the back row. Nobody will notice."
"Ma'am, you're not on the list," the usher said, his tone flat and unamused.
My stomach dropped into a hollow, freezing void. "I'm not?"
The man shook his head again, his outstretched arm gently but firmly pushing us toward the stone balustrade to clear the threshold.
Another late-coming couple hurried past us, their perfume cloying in the midday heat.
They offered a name, the usher’s pen checked it off instantly, and he waved them into the mansion with a stiff nod.
"All the way through to the back garden. "
Watching the double doors close behind them made the blood boil beneath my skin, a hot, red flush of pure embarrassment crawling up my neck. The physical evidence of my invitation sat in my purse at the flat. How could my name simply vanish from the registry?
Hunter’s hand squeezed my fingers, his eyes scanning the ledger from a distance. "Must be a glitch with the system, Jess. A printing error."
A silent, freezing knowing settled over my chest, cutting through the initial confusion. The puzzle pieces locked into place with a sickening click. "She did it on purpose. To fuck with me."
The realization left me crestfallen, a heavy sense of defeat weighting my limbs.
The smart-mouthed, confident woman from the lounge vanished, replaced by the old, gullible version who fell for Amberleigh’s calculated bullshit all over again.
The entire invitation functioned as a trap, a mechanism designed to ensure I drove two hours just to receive a public rejection on the steps of her kingdom.
Hunter noticed the internal collapse instantly, his easygoing demeanor evaporating into something altogether different. He stepped around me, crowding the usher’s personal space until the man had to tilt his chin up to maintain eye contact.
"Listen to me closely," Hunter said, and the tone of his voice made the usher’s eyes widen. "You let her in right now, or I swear to God I'll tear this perfectly perfect wedding to the ground. I'll make a scene that your security detail won't forget, and I'll start with that ledger."
The usher swallowed hard, his professional veneer cracking under the absolute certainty in Hunter's eyes. He stepped aside without another syllable, his arm gesturing toward the interior.
Hunter’s palm closed over mine, his grip warm and steady as he led me through the arched threshold of the mansion.
The interior screamed typical Charlottesville old-money style—soaring ceilings, white crown molding, and polished mahogany floors that reflected the glare of the crystal chandeliers overhead.
Large oil portraits of people who probably owned plantations stared down from the silk-covered walls, their expressions as rigid as the usher outside.
"Hunter, stop," I muttered, my heels clicking sharply against the hardwood as we hurried through the grand foyer toward the rear exit. "This isn't necessary. She clearly doesn't want me here. Let's just go back to the truck."
"You're attending this wedding, Jess," Hunter countered, his pace never wavering as he pulled me along. "For closure."
"I don't need closure."
"The closure's for me," he shot back, turning his head to flash that familiar, wicked smirk. "I want to watch her expression when she realizes her little stunt failed."
A laugh burst out of me, his uncanny ability to lighten my darkest moods striking the target yet again.
The rear exit of the mansion opened onto a sprawling back garden that looked like a page torn from a luxury bridal magazine.
Rows of white Tiffany chairs stretched across the manicured lawn, glistening under the bright midday sun.
At the far end, an elaborate archway woven with white roses and eucalyptus stood waiting for the couple.
The plan to slip unnoticed into the back row fell flat within two seconds.
Every seat along the rear perimeter contained a body, forcing a rapid tactical pivot.
Hunter maintained a firm grip on my hand, guiding me down the central aisle toward the only remaining pocket of empty seats near the middle section.
Heads turned, the late arrival drawing a dozen curious glances from the seated guests.
We slid into two empty chairs, the white wood creaking slightly beneath our weight. Hunter’s palm immediately covered mine on my knee, his thumb tracing a steady, soothing circle over my knuckles to hold my focus away from staring eyes.
The traditional wedding march began to play from a hidden sound system, but the expected spike of jealousy or bitterness failed to materialize.
Looking toward the altar where Jacksyn stood in his stiff tuxedo, the old wounds left by Amberleigh felt hollow.
No desire for revenge lingered in my chest. Instead, a profound wave of emotion for the three men in my life filled me, a deep, solid realization of how much my world expanded beyond this petty high school drama.
"Love is not a transactional contract," the officiant’s voice boomed across the garden, his words bouncing off the brick walls of the mansion. "It is a choice made every single day, an expansion of the self to accommodate the soul of another."
Hunter’s head turned at the exact moment my own gaze drifted away from the altar.
Our eyes locked, his brilliant blue irises reflecting the summer sky.
A genuine, relaxed smile touched my lips, stripping away the last remnant of defensive armor.
He leaned in across the narrow gap between our chairs, his lips pressing against mine in a tender, unhurried kiss that tasted faintly of the open road.
"Amberleigh and Jacksyn, I now pronounce you husband and wife," the officiant announced.
The crowd erupted into polite applause as the newlyweds kissed and turned to parade down the aisle. The tension in the garden dissolved into a general chatter as an announcer directed the crowd to move toward the white marquee tent erected on the western lawn for the reception.
The guests rose in a single, fluid mass, shuffling toward the arched entrance of the massive canvas structure. Moving through the white drapes with Hunter close at my back, my eyes scanned the perimeter of the tent, cataloging the ice sculptures and champagne towers.
Movement near the service entrance on the far side of the canvas caught my attention.
Two tall, exceptionally broad silhouettes stepped through the kitchen flap, adjusting their suit jackets with a practiced, nonchalant ease that belonged nowhere near a catering crew.
Brock and Dane slipped into the reception crowd, their eyes immediately scanning the room until they locked straight onto me.