Chapter 22
From Batty to Bridal
Hayley
The courtyard behind the rose garden is absolute chaos.
Tulle. Lip gloss. Panic.
A forgotten bouquet wilting in the corner. A bridesmaid pinning her fringe back with a fork.
Somewhere, a string quartet is warming up, completely unaware that the bridal party currently has no idea who’s supposed to walk down the aisle first.
“Do we go in order of height? Age? Does the maid of honour go first or last?”
“Maybe we follow the alphabetical chart thing?”
“What chart thing?!”
I blink at the group of mildly feral women in pale sage satin, all staring at each other like they’ve just realised there’s no adult in the room.
“Wait,” someone says, panicked. “Who even is the maid of honour?”
“Hayley, of course!” another pipes up, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
I freeze.
Right. That’s me.
Apparently, I am the adult in the room.
And the maid of honour.
Perfect.
I glance at Lily, radiant but visibly vibrating with nerves, whispering something to the celebrant and mouthing “breathe” to herself like she’s in active labour.
Lily. The spreadsheet queen. The woman who once labelled her holiday toiletries with printed tags and hand-drew a seating plan for her own hen do.
She hasn’t organised the aisle order.
No laminated list. No clipboard. Nothing.
Then again, she’s been a little preoccupied.
Fine. I’ll allow it.
I clap once. Loud. The bridesmaids go still, startled, like deer caught in bridal headlights.
“Maid of honour, me, goes first. Then you four, in whichever order you can remember and stick to. If in doubt, follow the one in front and try not to face-plant. Good? Good.”
They stare at me for a beat.
Then, as one, they cheer.
“YES, HAYLEY!”
“Oh my God, thank you.”
“You’re literally a genius.”
“Seriously, you’ve been the best part of this weekend. We couldn’t have done this without you.”
I blink, caught completely off guard.
One of them…Sarah? No… Serena, reaches for my hand.
“You’ve just… handled everything. You’re so much more than comic relief, you know?”
Another bridesmaid nods, earnest. “Honestly, I thought you were going to be chaos. But you’ve been a total legend.”
Legend.
My chest squeezes. I really wish I’d taken the time to remember her name now, because that might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.
“Thanks,” I manage, my throat a little tighter than I’d like.
Lily squeezes my hand as she lines up behind us. Her eyes are still bright, but steady now.
“You saved me, Hayley,” she whispers. “Don’t ever think you’re not enough. You’re… kind of the glue.”
My chest aches, the good kind, the surprising kind, the kind that feels a little like healing.
I take a slow breath, let it fill me. Beyond the courtyard, the music swells, something soft and string-heavy drifting over the garden wall, wrapping around us like a spell.
Guests shift in their seats. The celebrant gives a nod.
It’s time.
I step forward.
And for the first time all weekend, I see it.
Really see it.
The garden is bathed in rich light, sun filtering through ivy-draped trellises like a blessing.
Wildflower posies spill colour down the rows of white chairs, little pockets of joy.
Beyond them, the lake glitters like it’s been dusted with gold, and the castle rises proud against the sky, ancient, magnificent, like a backdrop borrowed from a fairytale.
When I step out, the air shifts.
People turn to look at me. Guests I’ve never met, smiling kindly.
No one’s whispering. No one’s laughing.
They’re just… watching.
Like I belong here.
Like I’m not the punchline.
Like I’m… beautiful. Wanted. Seen.
I take my first step onto the aisle runner, heart thudding. Eyes turn, polite smiles blooming along the rows. Someone gives me a little nod of approval. Another whispers something to their neighbour and gestures at my bouquet, probably surprised I haven’t dropped it or used it as a weapon.
And then I see him.
Standing at the top of the aisle in his full tux, back straight, hands clasped, jaw tight.
But his eyes…
Locked on me.
Not blinking. Not moving. Just watching.
Something flickers across his face, surprise, or maybe awe, and his mouth falls slightly open.
He looks like he’s been sucker-punched by my existence.
And honestly?
That’ll do.
Until I notice the boutonnière pinned to his lapel.
Wait.
He’s standing next to Ben.
Oh my God.
Tyler’s the best man?
Literally every single person in this wedding party knew this and not one of them thought to mention it?
Perfect. Great. Love that for me.
My steps steady. My chin lifts. That smug little warmth spreads across my chest like someone’s lit a sparkler inside me.
That’s right, my lord. Your jester cleans up alright.
I scan the crowd, faces blurring slightly from nerves and sheer sunlight, and then I see Bitch Queen Helen.
Two rows back. Perfect posture, perfect hair, perfect glare.
Her mouth is set, unmoving. Her eyes? Locked not on me, but on Tyler.
Watching him.
Watching him watch me.
Her expression pinches with every step I take, like she’s personally being tortured by the sight of him looking at me like that.
And I can’t help it.
I smile.
On purpose. Unapologetic.
Her jaw ticks.
By the time I blink again, I’m at the top of the aisle, triumphant, glowing, and maybe just a little petty.
Tyler steps forward to meet me, holding out his arm like we’re in a period drama, leaning in just enough that his voice is barely audible…
“You look beautiful.”
No smirk. No teasing. Just soft, sincere truth, no costume, no performance.
My stomach flips so hard I nearly miss the celebrant’s opening words.
I take my place, and the ceremony begins.
For the next twenty minutes, I do everything in my power not to cry.
But something about it, the gentle vows, the golden light, the way Lily and Ben look at each other like the world’s just been made new, it dawns on me.
Like the air after a rainstorm.
Clean.
Calm.
Full of possibility.
Like hope.
I glance up at the flower-strewn arch, the silk ribbons swaying lazily in the breeze, the guests beaming from the second row.
And I think, maybe I want this one day. Not just the dress. Not just the setting.
But the certainty. The steadiness.
And even as that longing bubbles in my chest, I don’t feel bitter. Or jealous. Or small.
I feel… warm.
Seen.
Held.
Maybe not by Tyler. Not yet.
But by something bigger.
Something that whispers, you’re not the jester today.
You’re the heroine.
The sun’s beginning to dip, painting the castle in warm apricot and gold. The music’s softened into that sweet spot somewhere between background jazz and ‘your uncle’s had too much Prosecco’ dancing.
I’ve officially survived the ceremony, the speeches, two awkward interrogations about my love life from distant relatives of the bride, and one canapé that detonated down my bodice like culinary shrapnel.
Now I’m tucked away behind the marquee, glass in hand, blistered heels kicked off, trying not to cry because someone stole the last vol-au-vent.
That’s when Ben appears, like he always does. Effortless. Comfortable.
And the thing is… I really do like him.
A lot.
He’s exactly what Lily needs, the still point in her constant motion.
His shirtsleeves are rolled, bowtie hanging loose, drink dangling from one hand. Rumpled, sun-warmed, and honestly the calmest I’ve seen him all day.
“Thought I’d find you back here,” he says, settling onto the low stone wall beside me like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
I smirk. “Is this where you send all the emotionally unstable bridesmaids to hide?”
He shrugs. “You’re my favourite emotionally unstable bridesmaid.”
I bump his shoulder. “That’s actually kind of sweet. Alarming, but sweet.”
We sit for a moment in companionable silence, sipping, letting the sounds of the party float in on the breeze, laughter, clinking glasses, the occasional whoop from the dance floor.
Then he glances sideways at me.
“You were incredible today.”
I blink. “What, the hair thing?”
He laughs. “The hair, yes. And…” His voice shifts, softer now, heavier, deliberate,
“…everything.”
He takes another sip, then looks straight ahead. “Can I tell you something?”
I nod, suddenly aware of the shift in energy.
“You know the whole themed wedding thing? The costumes, the tights, the hats?”
“Hard to miss.”
“Yeah, well… Tyler was not a fan.” Ben chuckles. “In fact, he tried to talk me out of it entirely. But the second I mentioned you’d be here, he perked right up.”
My stomach flips.
Ben keeps his gaze on the horizon. “He’s never really hung out with Lily’s friends, he works all the time, always has. He’s family, obviously, but we mostly catch up when our schedules align. He’s… a good guy, Hales. Better than people give him credit for. But he’s had a bit of a reputation.”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. I’ve heard.”
Ben glances at me, lips twitching. “Helen, right?”
I groan. “Don’t say her name like that. You’ll summon her.”
He grins. “Fair. Look, I set him up with Helen back when I thought she might be good for him. Seemed like his usual type. But then he met you at my party and… something shifted.”
I blink at him. “I was barely conscious at your party.”
Ben laughs. “Yeah, well, he was. He said you told him he looked like candlelight and then passed out eating cheese.”
“Oh my God, it really was me!” I bury my face in my hands.
“He said it was the best ten minutes of his year.” Ben smirks. “Which frankly makes me question his social calendar. But he was different when he talked about you, Hales. Not his usual… you know?”
I peek at him through my fingers. “Not his usual hump-’em-and-dump-’em self?”
Ben shrugs, smiling. “Your words, not mine. But yeah. Different.”
I go quiet.
The wind stirs the trees, carrying in the faint, off-key chorus of someone in the marquee butchering “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.”
I stare at the ground like it might hold the answer.
“I don’t think he’s messing you about, Hayley,” Ben says after a beat, his voice softer now. “He’s just… scared. Probably more than he wants to admit.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, the words sitting heavy between us.
Ben drains the last of his drink and sets the glass down with a soft clink.
“But if you think, even for a second, that he doesn’t see you, really see you…” He waits until I glance up at him, “…then you’re wrong.”
He straightens his cuffs, easy, measured.
“And he’s a moron if he lets you leave tonight without saying so himself.”
Then he’s gone, back into the lantern-lit garden, disappearing the way grooms always do: gracefully, with perfect timing.
And I’m left on the wall, clutching a half-finished champagne and the distinct weight of a truth I didn’t know I needed.
I barely have time to spiral properly before I hear a theatrical sigh, see a familiar swish of velvet, and Peacock sweeps into view like a disappointed drama teacher.
He rounds the corner in full post-ceremony glory, satin waistcoat, glittering loafers, and what appears to be a cravat fashioned from repurposed bunting.
He stops, eyes twinkling. “Darling. There you are.”
It’s pure Peacock. Crisp. British. Completely put on.
I try to straighten up, suddenly self-conscious, but he waves a hand and drops onto the wall beside me with the languid grace of a very expensive, very dramatic cat.
“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he says, and this time the accent shifts, the act loosening.
“That was some A+ emotional exposition from our groom.”
I groan. “Please don’t give me notes.”
“Too late. Five stars for vulnerability. Bonus points for dramatic timing.”
I huff a laugh, but the nervous energy is still there, fizzing under my skin. I look down at my hands.
“I don’t know,” I mutter. “Maybe it was just the script. The wedding. The weekend. All of it.”
Peacock makes a noise that’s part gasp, part scandalised sigh.
“Scripts are for amateurs,” he says. “Real people improvise.”
I glance at him, ready with a quip, and then I actually look at him.
Broad shoulders relaxed but powerful under that ridiculous costume. Late thirties, early forties maybe. Salt-and-pepper hair that looks deliberately messy. Tanned skin, far too tanned for UK weather, and a jawline that really has no business being wasted on a man this theatrical.
Oh God.
He’s… handsome.
Dangerously so.
I squeeze my Prosecco flute a little too hard. Definitely had too much to drink.
I tear my eyes away before he catches me. “Easy for you to say, some of us weren’t born with leading character energy.”
Something shifts.
He looks me dead in the eye and it’s like someone turned the stage lights off. The humour in his expression fades, his posture straightens, and for a heartbeat I see him.
Not Peacock, not the strutting, feathered chaos he plays for the world.
Just the man.
Eyes darker now, locked on mine like he’s daring me to look away first.
When he speaks, his voice is lower, smoother, stripped of its usual shine, intimate enough to make my pulse skip.
“It’s all an act, Hayley. None of it is real, not the feathers, the one-liners, or the larger-than-life drama king you’ve been putting up with all weekend. My confidence is just theatre.”
For once, I don’t have a joke, don’t have a deflection. I just… look at him.
And listen.
“But belief…” His gaze catches mine, steady and disarming. “Belief is showing up even when you think you’ll make a fool of yourself. Which, for the record, you haven’t.”
Peacock holds my gaze a few seconds longer, then exhales. And just like that, the moment vanishes in a puff of smoke.
A magician’s trick.
One second, he’s there, unguarded, impossible to look away from, and the next, gone.
He clears his throat, flicks an invisible speck from his waistcoat, and the showman is back, as if someone yelled “Places!” offstage.
Peacock bumps my shoulder with a grin that’s pure mischief.
“Hayley. If you don’t make a move on Tyler, I’ll have to serenade you with “Don’t Stop Believing,’ and trust me, nobody wants that.”
I belly-laugh, the tension breaking. “God, please don’t.”
“Exactly. So go.” His grin softens, just slightly, but his words land with weight. “Chase the man. Steal the scene. Write your own damn ending.”
And that’s all it takes.
I launch off the wall, my heart jackhammering, and stride toward the castle, to chase my third-act climax.
Or set something spectacular on fire trying.