Chapter 21
Operation Nora
Hayley
Another day, another updo for a wedding that’s not mine.
I’m parked at the creaky vanity, staring at my reflection. My under-eye circles are issuing an early warning about the Queen of Scots cocktails, and Helen’s smug comments are still buzzing like wasps, even after Tyler’s dramatic ‘I know who you are’ revelation.
I dab at my cheeks with a sponge like I know what I’m doing, which I don’t. The only things holding me together right now are concealer and the knowledge that this hell is nearly over.
Behind me, the castle thrums with wedding chaos. Footsteps pounding down halls, someone wailing about lost cufflinks and distant shrieks over rogue flower girls. I swirl my brush in bronzer with all the enthusiasm of someone powdering a corpse.
Still, the show must go on.
I stand, ready to wrestle myself into the vaguely bridesmaid-shaped piece of unforgiving satin I agreed to wear out of loyalty and mild blackmail.
Only, plot twist, the dress isn’t there.
“No, no, no.” I fling open the wardrobe. Empty. I check behind the bathroom door.
Nada.
Then it hits me: mid-brunch yesterday, I popped into Emma’s room to help her wrangle a false eyelash off the ceiling (don’t ask), and I must’ve left the dress draped over her armchair.
Emma, who’s barely said a single word to me since the day we met. I don’t even know if she remembers my name.
I yank open the wardrobe again, not for the missing dress (which is obviously living its best life elsewhere), but for my emergency garment of shame: a pink, fluffy dressing gown that screams menopausal mum but at least covers the essentials.
I tie the sash with dignity I absolutely do not possess and storm towards the door.
I barrel down the corridor, gown flapping dramatically behind me like I’m starring in a deranged castle-set hormone replacement advert.
“Barbie chic, Cheese Queen?” Karl calls, grinning from where he’s standing casually next to a suit of armour.
I flip him off mid-stride. Nearly trip. “This is why people elope!” I shout back, dodging a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and narrowly avoiding a tiara abandoned in my path like a royal booby trap.
Emma’s room is a war zone. There’s fake tan smeared on the mirror, foundation-caked tissues carpeting the floor, and someone curling their hair with what I’m almost certain is a vibrator.
A makeup artist is arguing with Devon yoga Brenda, who turns out to be Lily’s terrifyingly chic aunt, and is brandishing two completely different mood boards and declaring that Lily will “simply pop” in both.
“Welcome to glam-ageddon,” someone mutters from behind a cloud of dry shampoo.
I spot my dress draped over an armchair, right where I left it, like an absolute moron.
“Bless you all and whatever saints you’re praying to,” I mumble, diving for the satin like it’s the Holy Grail.
Just as I’m about to make my escape, someone calls out through the haze.
“Hey, Hayley, have you seen Lily?”
I freeze mid-step. “Lily?”
“Yeah,” the bridesmaid says, glancing up from her unevenly bronzed face. “She went to grab something from her room ages ago and hasn’t come back. She’s next for makeup.”
I blink at her, thrown. I don’t even know this girl’s name, we didn’t exchange a single word during the hen do, and yet she knows mine? Fabulous. I’m now probably the girl whose gossip made it to the group chat I’m not in.
“No… haven’t seen her,” I manage.
A flicker of dread curls in my stomach, not full-blown panic, just that first ominous violin in a horror soundtrack. Technically, I was meant to join the bridal glam squad in the main suite, but after last night, the idea of communal curling and forced cheerfulness made my soul itch.
“I’ll keep an eye out,” I say, clutching the dress like a shield, and retreat from the madhouse.
I take the stairs two at a time, gripping my dress like a parachute mid-crash.
As I round the corner toward my room, I stop dead.
Tyler.
Leaning against the wall outside his room, adjusting a cufflink like he’s prepping for a GQ cover shoot. Full tux. Black tie. Shirt starched to sin. Shoes polished to an unreasonable standard.
He looks so good, my left fallopian tube just updated its will.
He glances up, and everything stills.
Our eyes lock. My breath catches. The hallway seems to shrink, castle noise fading until it’s just the two of us suspended in this moment like it matters.
Because it does.
He takes one slow step forward, something tentative flickering across his face.
And then I remember what I’m wearing.
The pink fluffy dressing gown.
Still on.
Still very much on.
Over leggings and a bra with one rebellious strap doing its own walk of shame.
I must look like Miss Piggy if she panic-packed for the Met Gala.
My face ignites.
Tyler’s lips twitch, just a little. Not mocking. Just… pleased. Like he’s genuinely happy to see me like this.
Which is somehow so much worse.
I smooth the fluff, lift my chin, and start walking toward him, mentally drafting something witty, casual, and definitely not humiliating.
But as I pass my door…
A sound.
A sob.
Desperate enough, heart-pulling enough, to sever the moment.
I freeze. Tyler’s brow furrows, his gaze snapping to my open door.
“Did you he—?”
“I think someone’s in my room,” I cut in, already turning the handle.
“Please don’t be a ghost,” I mutter, shoving the door open.
Not a ghost.
Lily.
Curled in a puddle of white tulle and bridal despair on my floor. Her eyes are red, mascara smeared halfway to tragic opera, and her hair…
Oh God.
It’s bad.
Startled poodle meets Edward Scissorhands bad.
Lily looks up at me, eyes huge, utterly panicked. “I can’t get married like this!”
I blink. “Lily, what…”
“I told them to curl the ends!” she wails. “Now I look like I’ve been electrocuted, and I’m terrified someone’s going to use my head to open a bottle of wine!”
Even mid-meltdown, my best friend is comedy gold. I bite back a grin, drop the dress, kneel beside her, and squeeze her hand.
“We’ve got this,” I promise.
Tyler appears in the doorway, takes one look at Lily’s hair, and mutters, “Holy fuck. Tell me you’ve got something that can fix this?”
“Like what? A time machine?!”
He gestures at my overnight bag. “No. Like… those scary things you had in last night.”
I blink. “You remembered my Nora Battys?”
He shrugs, smirking. “They looked like weapons. Hard to forget.”
Lily sniffles. “What’s a Nora Batty?”
I sigh. “Iconic British TV character. Hair always in rollers. Cardigan, wrinkled stockings, perpetual look of judgement. Basically, what I aspire to be on Sundays.”
Tyler bites back a laugh.
I march to my bag, yanking out the rollers like I’m about to perform a ritual sacrifice.
He smooths each section of hair with surprising care, while I roll and pin with furious purpose.
Our hands brush.
Sparks.
His eyes meet mine, and for a split second, I feel it again, that shift, that pull, that terrifying weight of being seen.
Not as comic relief. Not as backup.
As someone who matters.
Time slips by in a bubble of quiet concentration. The chaos beyond the door, footsteps, shrieks, the whole wedding machine, fades to nothing.
Tyler slips out for a moment and returns with a glass of whisky, crouching to press it into Lily’s hands.
“For nerves,” he says, like it’s just between them. “Or courage.”
Her fingers tremble as she takes it, and something in my chest does the same.
By the time the rollers have set, we’ve built a small miracle out of panic and bobby pins. I lean in, gently coaxing a final curl into place.
“Less corkscrew, more bridal glow-up,” I murmur, tucking in a rebellious strand.
“You’re good at this,” Tyler says quietly, almost like he’s reluctant to break the spell.
I smirk, not looking up. “You’re lucky I was born with emergency hair-disaster skills.”
Lily giggles through her tears, the sound steadier now, hopeful. We finish the last pin, and I hand her the mirror like I’m presenting the crown jewels.
She gasps. “You fixed it!”
“Of course she did,” Tyler says, straightening and brushing off his trousers.
Lily launches herself at us, arms flung wide, a human bouquet of panic and gratitude, and squeezes us both at once.
“I love you,” she says breathlessly. “Now I have to go so they can contour the tears off my face!”
She bolts for the door, then doubles back, radiant. “Seriously. You’re an angel!”
And then she’s gone.
The room falls quiet.
Just me. Tyler. And a floor full of bobby pins and tension thick enough to braid.
His hands slip into his pockets. Jacket open. Hair just rumpled enough to look deliberate. His gaze doesn’t leave mine.
This is it. The moment.
I finally exhale.
He takes a step closer.
“Hayley, I…”
“Fuck! Is that the time?” Lily’s voice detonates from the hallway, making me jump. “HAYLEY!”
She bursts back in, breathless and single-minded. “You’re with me, now! Dress. Grab the dress! Tyler, she’ll see you at the altar!” she fires, seizing my wrist with terrifying strength.
I glance back over my shoulder. Tyler’s still watching me. Eyes steady. Smile sure.
“See you at the altar, my lord.”
And this time, my smile isn’t forced.
It’s real.