Chapter 8
By late afternoon, Sara had stopped flinching every time another receipt appeared. That scared her a little.
Abbie sat beside her in the resort business center, surrounded by printed screenshots, scribbled notes, and three empty espresso cups.
Dominic occupied the chair across from them, laptop open, sleeves rolled, expression focused but never hungry.
He handled the evidence like it mattered because Sara mattered, not because the scandal entertained him.
The room was cool and quiet, tucked behind the concierge desk and usually reserved for guests who needed to print boarding passes or pretend not to work on vacation.
Outside the glass wall, people in resort clothes drifted past with shopping bags and sunburned shoulders.
Inside, Sara organized Brayden’s betrayal.
Brooklyn’s champagne post, two weeks before the wedding.
Brayden’s watch.
A creator dinner in Los Angeles where Brayden and Brooklyn had both been tagged, though never in the same photo.
A resort welcome party clip with Brooklyn stepping out of frame just as Brayden reached for someone.
The hoodie.
The villa reflection.
The key card.
The close-friends video.
Sara touched the printed image of Brooklyn wearing Brayden’s hoodie. “She was at the rehearsal dinner.”
Abbie looked up. “Yes.”
“She was at the welcome bonfire.”
“Yes.”
“She watched me walk down the aisle.”
Abbie’s expression softened. “Sara.”
“She watched him say vows to me.”
Dominic’s fingers paused on the keyboard. He didn’t speak.
Sara appreciated that. If he had filled the moment with comfort too quickly, she might have shattered from the effort of accepting it.
She looked at the next screenshot. Brooklyn in the background of the reception, clapping while Sara and Brayden cut the cake. The cake had been five tiers, lemon and elderflower, because Brayden said vanilla was boring and Sara wanted him to feel like the wedding belonged to him too.
Brooklyn had eaten that cake. Brooklyn had danced under Sara’s flowers. Brooklyn had slept with Sara’s husband on the wedding weekend Sara’s family had created.
“I want to go home,” Sara whispered.
Abbie covered her hand. “Then we’ll go.”
Sara closed her eyes. She imagined leaving in a golf cart with her luggage piled beside her, face hidden behind sunglasses, while Brayden told people she had gotten overwhelmed.
She imagined Brooklyn posting a sunrise photo tomorrow with some caption about peace.
She imagined the internet deciding Sara was spoiled, fragile, too young to handle marriage, too rich to be sympathetic.
Her eyes opened. “No.”
Abbie leaned closer. “No?”
“I want to go home because I’m hurt.” Sara looked at the evidence spread across the table. “I don’t want to go home because they made me run.”
Dominic sat back. “Those are different things.”
“Yes.” Sara looked at him. “They are.”
He studied her for a moment, as if deciding how honest to be. “You can leave this island tonight and still be strong. You can stay and expose him and still cry later. There’s no graceful version of being betrayed that you owe anyone.”
Sara’s throat tightened.
He continued, softer, “You don’t owe anyone graceful suffering.”
The sentence moved through her carefully, not like comfort, but like permission.
All day, she had been trying to choose the most elegant way to be devastated.
Smile here. Lower her voice there. Don’t embarrass the family.
Don’t make a scene. Don’t look foolish. Don’t look young.
Don’t prove everyone right. Maybe dignity wasn’t silence.
Maybe dignity was refusing to carry shame that belonged to someone else.
Her phone rang. Brayden. She let it go to voicemail. A few seconds later, the voicemail appeared. Abbie tapped it before Sara could decide.
Brayden’s voice filled the room, low and irritated.
“Babe, I don’t know what’s going on with you today, but you need to come back to the villa and reset. People are asking if you’re okay. The followers loved the first honeymoon reel, and I need you present tonight. This is important. Don’t let whatever mood you’re in become the story.”
Sara looked at the phone until the screen dimmed.
Whatever mood. The story.
Abbie’s jaw flexed. “I want that man bald by morning.”
Sara reached for the printed screenshots and began arranging them in a line.
“What are you doing?” Abbie asked.
“Making sure he gets the story right.”
Dominic’s gaze sharpened. “What do you want to happen?”
She liked that he asked what she wanted, not what he could do.
Sara picked up the photo of Brayden’s watch beside Brooklyn’s champagne.
“He wanted this weekend to be content.” She placed the villa reflection beside it.
“He wanted the wedding to make people believe he was a devoted husband.” She added the key card handoff.
“He wanted me dressed in white while she held the room key.”
Abbie’s smile turned dangerous. “I love when you organize pain.”
Sara looked at the evidence. Her hand was steady now. “The farewell dinner is tonight. Brayden planned a newlywed montage. He told the coordinator it was a surprise for me.”
Abbie sat forward. “How do you know?”
“He bragged about it last week. He wanted everyone crying before dessert.”
Dominic’s eyes stayed on Sara. “And what do you want them watching instead?”
Sara stared at the fake honeymoon images on Brayden’s public page. His caption read: Forever looks good on us.
Not anymore.
“If he wanted the wedding to be content,” Sara said, “we’ll give him content.”