Chapter 5
DOMINIC
The aisle was empty.
Dominic stood at the altar, watching the doors close behind Charlotte and Kate. His first thought, the very first thing that crossed his mind, before the guilt, before the shame, before anything resembling human feeling was: How do I fix this?
The ballroom had erupted into noise that only happens when hundreds of well-dressed people are trying to react to a catastrophe without appearing to react to a catastrophe.
A low hum of whispered conversations, chairs creaking, someone's phone already buzzing.
The string quartet had long stopped playing.
The officiant was standing at the altar holding his book open to a page they would never finish, looking at Dominic with an expression that fell somewhere between professional concern and undisguised horror.
Dominic turned to Maxwell. "Go after her."
Maxwell stared at him. "What?"
"Go after her. Tell her I need five minutes. Tell her it was a slip — nerves, the pressure — tell her I need five minutes and I can explain."
"Dom. She's gone."
"She's upstairs. She's in the bridal suite. Just go up and—"
"She's gone, Dom. Did you see her face? She's not coming back down for five minutes or five hours or—"
"Then I'll go." Dominic stepped down from the altar. Maxwell caught his arm.
"No. You’re not going up there right now. That is the worst possible thing you could do right now."
"I need to talk to her."
"You need to let her breathe."
"If I can just explain—"
"Explain what?" Maxwell’s voice dropped, hard and direct, the voice he used in depositions.
"What are you going to explain? That you accidentally said your ex-girlfriend's name at your own wedding?
While your fiancée was standing there with tears on her face from vows she wrote during her lunch break? "
Dominic flinched. The words were like a slap, and for a fraction of a second the machinery of his composure faltered. Something raw and exposed, and then he sealed it over. He was good at sealing things over. He'd had a lifetime of practice.
"Handle the room," he said. "Say something. Tell them — tell them we're taking a brief pause."
"A brief pause."
"Maxwell. Please."
Maxwell looked at him for a long moment. Then he turned to the guests. He cleared his throat. "Folks, we're going to take a short break. Please help yourselves to the bar in the reception hall. We'll have an update for you shortly."
The room moved. Slowly, awkwardly; they wanted to stay and watch but knew they shouldn't. Guests filed toward the reception hall, and the whispers swelled as they went, fragments reaching Dominic like shrapnel.
Did he say another woman's name?
I think he said — Jacqueline? Who's Jacqueline?
Oh my god, that poor girl.
That poor girl. Charlotte. They were talking about Charlotte. His Charlotte, who'd stood here five minutes ago and told everyone that she chose him, and he'd repaid her by proving she'd chosen wrong.
He pushed the thought down. He'd deal with the feeling later. Right now he needed logistics.
He pulled out his phone. Called Charlotte. It rang four times and went to voicemail. He tried again. Voicemail. He texted: Charlotte, please let me explain. It was nerves. It meant nothing. Please call me back.
He stared at the screen. The message showed as delivered. No response.
He called Kate. It rang once and cut to silence: manually rejected, not voicemail. Kate had looked at his name on her screen and pressed decline. He tried again. Same thing.
He was typing a second text to Charlotte when his mother appeared at his elbow.
Ginnifer Weston was a woman who could communicate fury at a frequency only her children could detect. Her face was composed. Her posture was flawless. Her hand on his arm had the grip strength of a vise.
"Walk with me," she said. "Now."
She steered him through the side entrance and into a service corridor. Beige walls, fluorescent lights, the unglamorous backstage of the Whitley Hotel. She turned to face him and the composure dropped.
"What have you done?"
"Mother—"
"Do you have any idea — any idea — what that looked like? In front of the Harringtons? The Caldwell family? Your father's partners? You said another woman's name at the altar, Dominic. At the altar."
"It was a mistake."
"It was a disaster. Roland is in there right now trying to keep Philip Caldwell from leaving, and the Harringtons' daughter has already posted something on Instagram — do you understand what this does to us?"
"Why was she even here?" Dominic's voice came out harder than he intended. "You told me the March name was poison. You told me to end it. And then you invite her to my wedding?"
His mother's eyes narrowed. "I didn't invite Jacqueline March.
I invited David Reeves. His family's fund is co-investing with your father on the Harbor Point development — Roland's been cultivating that relationship for over a year.
David brought his wife, because that's what people do at weddings, Dominic.
I wasn't going to call the man's office and tell him to leave his spouse at home because my son can't keep his composure. "
"You could have warned me."
"Warned you?" Her voice dropped to a whisper that cut deeper than shouting.
"I didn't think I needed to. The March scandal was years ago.
Jacqueline goes by Reeves now. She's not radioactive anymore — she's a guest's plus-one at a wedding you were supposed to be focused on.
I didn't warn you because it shouldn't have mattered. She shouldn't have mattered."
Nothing about Charlotte. To us. To the family. To the brand. Dominic heard it and didn't flinch because he'd grown up in a house where personal crises were assessed by their public impact. A broken engagement wasn't a broken heart. It was a communications problem.
"I'll fix it," he muttered.
"How, exactly? How do you plan to fix the fact that everyone just watched you humiliate that girl?"
"She overreacted. If I can talk to her—"
His mother’s hand came up. One finger, raised.
The gesture that had silenced him since childhood.
"She did not overreact. She reacted. There's a difference, and the fact that you can't see it tells me everything I need to know about how we got here.
" She smoothed the front of her jacket. "Your father built relationships with these people over decades, Dominic.
Decades. And you've just made us a punchline. "
She straightened his tie. The gesture was automatic, maternal, and completely devoid of warmth. "Find that girl. Fix this. Marry her or don't, but contain the damage by the end of the week." She turned and walked back toward the ballroom.
Dominic stood in the service corridor under the fluorescent lights. His phone buzzed. A text from Maxwell: Now people are asking if they should leave. What do I tell them?
He typed back: Tell them to go. Cancel the reception. I'll handle the rest.
He tried Charlotte again. Voicemail. He left a message this time, keeping his voice even, controlled.
"Charlotte. I know you're upset, and I understand.
I need you to know that what happened was a mistake — a slip.
It doesn't change anything about how I feel about us, about this marriage.
We can still do this. Please call me back so we can talk. "
He hung up. Listened to the message back in his head. We can still do this. Like a deal that had stalled. Like a negotiation that needed one more round.
He walked back into the ballroom. It was nearly empty now, a few stragglers collecting purses and jackets, the hotel staff hovering uncertainly near the flower arrangements.
The altar was still set. The candles were still burning in their glass hurricanes.
The peonies were starting to wilt at the edges.
Charlotte's vows were on the floor. The folded paper, blue ink, slightly smudged. She must have dropped it when she turned to leave. He picked it up. Held it.
He didn't open it. He already knew what it said.
He'd heard every word, standing three feet away from her while she cried, laughed and gave him everything she had.
He'd stood there and received it like a man accepting a quarterly report.
Noting the content, appreciating the effort, filing it for review.
I choose you, Dominic. Today and tomorrow and every day I'm lucky enough to get.
He put the paper in his jacket pocket. He’d give it back to her when she calmed down. When he explained. When this was fixed.
Maxwell was waiting by the side door. Jacket off, sleeves rolled up.
"Did you reach her?" Maxwell asked.
"Not yet. She'll call back."
Maxwell was quiet for a moment. "Dom. I need to say something and you're not going to like it."
"Then don't say it."
"She's not going to call back."
Dominic checked his phone. No new messages. "She will. She's upset. She needs time to cool down, and then I'll explain that it was nerves, and we'll reschedule—"
"Reschedule." Maxwell said the word like he was tasting something rotten. "You want to reschedule your wedding. Like it's a board meeting that ran long."
"What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to stop treating this like a PR crisis and start treating it like what it is. You just broke that woman's heart in front of everyone. Her parents were in that room, Dom. Her dad was sitting right there, watching his daughter get destroyed."
Dominic's hand tightened around his phone. The image hit him. Charlotte's father, half out of his seat, red-faced, reaching for a daughter he couldn't reach. But he pushed away the thought because he couldn't afford to sit with it. Not yet. Not until he had a plan.
"I'll talk to her tomorrow," he said. "She'll have had time to process. I'll go to her, I'll explain and we'll work through it."
Maxwell shook his head slowly. "You really believe that."
"I do."
"Then you're further gone than I thought." Maxwell picked up his jacket. "She's never going to want to see you again. And honestly? After what you just did? I'm not sure she should."
Maxwell walked out. The side door closed behind him with a sound like a verdict.
Dominic stood alone in the empty ballroom. The candles flickered. The peonies wilted. The chairs sat in their perfect rows, angled toward an altar where nothing had been completed.
He looked at his phone one more time. No calls. No texts. No Charlotte.
He'd fix it. He always fixed things. That was what he did. He assessed, strategized, executed. This was no different. Charlotte was upset, but she loved him. Love was leverage, and leverage was something he understood.
He'd call her tomorrow. He'd bring flowers. He'd explain.
It would be fine. He'd make it fine.