Chapter 12
The screen behind Brayden bloomed with light. For one breath, it showed exactly what everyone expected: a soft-focus shot of the beach pavilion, white orchids swaying above rows of gold chairs, the ocean glittering behind the altar. A sweet melody played through the speakers. Someone sighed nearby.
Then the image changed. Brooklyn appeared on-screen wearing Brayden’s pale blue groom’s hoodie, the wedding logo clear over her heart. The clip froze long enough for everyone to see her smile, her hand tucked into the pocket like she had been invited to keep a piece of the groom.
A murmur moved through the terrace. Brayden turned toward the screen. His face drained of color.
The next image appeared: Brooklyn’s pool story. Some weekends are too good to end.
Then the villa reflection. The glass door. Brooklyn’s legs on the white sofa. The shape of Brayden’s body reflected in the glass.
Gasps broke across the tables.
Brooklyn moved first. “What the hell is this?”
Abbie’s voice cut cleanly across the terrace. “A highlight reel, babe. You’re doing great.”
The screen changed again.
The champagne photo from two weeks before the wedding. Brooklyn’s hand. Brayden’s silver watch with the blue face. Her caption: Some men look better in blue.
Sara heard her mother inhale. Her father said nothing, which meant he was thinking of every possible way to end Brayden.
Brayden stepped toward the event coordinator. “Turn it off.”
The coordinator looked helplessly at Sara.
Sara shook her head once. The montage continued.
Raw footage from the honeymoon shoot filled the screen, bright and beautiful at first. Sara and Brayden on the beach, his hands on her waist, his mouth near her temple.
For half a second, they looked like the love story he had wanted to sell.
Then the footage shifted to the edge of the frame. Brayden stepped away between takes. Brooklyn waited near the flowers. His hand opened. The key card flashed. Brooklyn took it and slid it under her phone case.
The terrace erupted.
Phones lifted. Chairs scraped back. Someone whispered, “Oh my God,” so loudly it might as well have been part of the soundtrack.
Brooklyn’s face went red beneath her makeup. “That doesn’t prove anything.”
The next clip played. Brooklyn’s own video, saved from the close-friends story she had deleted.
“Honeymoons with plot twists,” she whispered on-screen, laughing behind a champagne flute.
Brayden’s laugh sounded off-camera.
The laughter on the terrace died completely.
Sara stood at her table, still holding the champagne Brayden had given her.
Her hand didn’t tremble. That surprised her.
She had thought the moment would feel like throwing herself off a cliff.
Instead, it felt like stepping out of a room that had been slowly filling with smoke.
Brayden turned from the screen to the guests. “This is being taken out of context.”
A woman at the next table actually laughed.
Brooklyn tried to move toward him. “Brayden.”
He flinched from the sound of his own name in her mouth.
Sara saw it. So did everyone else.
The final image appeared: Brooklyn’s story from the cocktail hour.
Some girls inherit the life. Some girls inspire the man.
Then Sara’s wedding photo filled the screen. Brayden kissing her hand. Brooklyn blurred behind him, looking directly into the camera.
The screen went black.
White words appeared.
He said it was for us.
He meant it was for them.
The music stopped. For a second, no one spoke.
Brayden recovered first, because he had built a career on finding the camera even after tripping over his own lies. He lifted both hands, and Sara saw one of them shake around the microphone.
“Everyone, please. This is a misunderstanding. Sara is upset. We’ve had a long weekend, and I think things have been edited to look worse than they are.”
Sara looked at him.
There it was. Even now. Even with his affair lit up in front of everyone who mattered, he reached for the easiest weapon.
Sara was upset. Sara was emotional. Sara had misunderstood the evidence of her own humiliation.
Abbie rose slowly beside her.
“No,” Sara said softly.
Abbie paused.
Sara stepped away from the table and walked toward Brayden. Every eye followed her. Her sandals clicked against the stone. The sound seemed impossibly loud.
Brayden turned to her with relief already blooming, as if he thought she was coming to help him.
“Baby,” he said, low enough to sound private and loud enough for nearby phones to catch it. “Tell them this isn’t what it looks like.”
Sara stopped in front of him.
“It’s exactly what it looks like.”
His smile cracked.
Brooklyn pushed forward, her voice pitched high. “You think embarrassing yourself makes you powerful? It makes you look pathetic.”
Sara turned her head slowly.
Brooklyn stood near the bar, cobalt dress glittering under the terrace lights, chest rising too fast. She still looked beautiful. That was the final straw. The audacity to stand there polished after rolling around in bed with Brayden all weekend.
“You can buy the resort, Sara,” Brooklyn snapped. “But you still couldn’t keep him.”
For a moment, Sara thought about slapping her.
The urge came fast and hot, a clean fantasy of palm against cheek and silence after it.
But a slap would let Brooklyn turn herself into the wounded star of the scene.
Champagne was better. Champagne belonged to this terrace, this wedding, this glossy little nightmare Brayden had staged.
Sara walked over to Brooklyn and lifted her champagne glass. Brooklyn’s eyes widened. Sara tipped the glass. Champagne spilled over Brooklyn in one golden, glittering sheet.
The terrace exploded.
Brooklyn gasped, stepping back as the liquid soaked into silk. Her mascara began to streak at the corners, tiny black threads cutting through all that perfect camera makeup. For once, no caption arrived quickly enough to save her.
Sara lowered the empty glass. “You wanted my honeymoon,” she said. “Consider that your toast.”