Chapter Thirteen
The big pre-wedding welcome party began the way all wealthy over-the-top events do, with far too many moving parts pretending to look perfectly natural.
The kind of “natural” that required three generators, forty staff, and at least two people quietly having stress nosebleeds somewhere out of sight.
The Langston Estate had been transformed into something between a film premiere and a royal gala.
Twinkling lights threaded through the branches overhead, soft enough to feel romantic but strong enough to flatter every cheekbone within a five-metre radius.
Lanterns swayed gently from the gum trees, casting pools of amber across the terrace, and the scent of jasmine drifted through the air whenever the breeze shifted.
The early-evening vineyard atmosphere worked hard to add its own charm, warm earth, crushed grapes, a sweetness riding on the air. It should have felt serene.
Instead, it thrummed.
The Kings of Nothing, a band currently sitting somewhere between sold-out international stadium tours and relentless media coverage were set up on a stage on the lawn, playing a set as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
Their lead singer had only just resurfaced after a long, very public hiatus, which made their presence feel less like a booking and more like a headline.
Then again… billionaire.
Above it all, a drone hovered lazily, dipping and weaving like an oversized mechanical dragonfly, filming everything from the champagne fountain to the florals to guests who pretended not to angle their faces towards the camera.
Every time the drone lights blinked, the crowd moved subtly, chin tilts, shoulder turns, posture adjustments.
A mass of unconscious synchronised preening.
The table settings were ridiculous in the most beautiful way.
Silk table clothes, polished cutlery catching the light, menus printed on thick cardstock that smelled faintly of bergamot.
Locally sourced roses overflowed from crystal vases, their petals dusted with microscopic flecks of gold leaf for “visual storytelling”, according to the décor stylist.
And then there was the ice sculpture.
My personal nemesis. It had taken a small crane to lift it into place.
Three metres tall, slowly rotating, shaped as the intertwined initials of C and J and sparkling under dedicated spotlights as though it was the true guest of honour.
Water trickled down its sides in infuriatingly symmetrical streams, collecting in a basin filled with floating petals.
Absolutely unnecessary.
Completely stunning.
And likely to melt into a hazard if someone danced too close.
The air buzzed with sound, the crisp pop of champagne bottles, the murmur of recognisable voices, the click of camera shutters from behind the hedges where paparazzi and the public hovered like exotic birds.
Every so often a cheer rose when a more notable guest stepped out of a car beyond the gates.
From the kitchen came a steady chorus of clattering pans and sizzling butter, wafts of truffle, lemon, and charred seafood drifting across the terrace. Waitstaff glided with balletic accuracy, delivering oysters, canapés, and endless glasses of fizz that magically refilled themselves.
The whole evening glowed.
Literally glowed, thanks to tens of thousands of fairy lights threaded through vines, trees, tables, and anywhere else a stylist could reach.
It was dazzling, ridiculous, and just a little bit magical.
The sort of moment that made guests stand a little taller and smile like they knew they were on the right side of decadence.
And it was only just getting started.
I was doing my usual zigzag from group to group, checking on everyone. Trying to stay present, gracious, in control. A one-woman Wi-Fi network keeping the whole thing connected.
“Excuse me,” an American voice said behind me. One of the wellness influencers, the one with straight white teeth and a permanently restful expression, held a candle between two fingertips. “This candle feels… toxic.”
I blinked. “Toxic?”
She nodded serenely. “It feels heavy. Do you have something… plant based?”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and instead smiled professionally. “Of course. I’ll find an alternative.”
Which unfortunately meant a trip to the kitchen to rummage for whatever candle was the least offensive.
Before I made it there, the DJ intercepted me near the fountain. He had platinum hair, mirrored sunglasses despite it being night time, and the energy of someone who slept in 40-minute cycles.
“Hi Holly, darling,” he purred, “any chance I can start my set early? I’ve got a secret Berlin gig later. NDA vibes.”
“Your contract starts at nine,” I replied sweetly.
He put a hand on his forehead. “Nine is like… super restrictive.”
“I’m sure it is,” I said. “But you’ll survive.”
He trudged off, muttering something about “creative suffocation”.
On my way back towards the terrace, one of the junior staff caught my sleeve, looking flustered.
“Holly? Sorry, the housekeeper asked me to tell you something.”
I paused. “Is everything okay?”
“She’s not sure,” the girl whispered. “It’s the display cabinet in the east hallway. Some of the pieces have been moved.”
Moved?
“She said a silver frame is sitting in the wrong place, and there’s… um… an empty patch in the velvet lining. Like something was picked up and put back slightly off. She’s trying to fix it before anyone notices.”
My stomach tightened.
Nothing stolen.
Nothing dramatic.
Just… wrong.
The kind of wrong you only pick up on when you’ve spent the afternoon walking the estate cataloguing every detail, trying to figure out where a missing antique brooch could be hiding.
“Did she think it was a guest?” I asked lightly, keeping my voice neutral.
“She didn’t say. Just that it wasn’t like that this afternoon.”
I nodded, thanked her, and sent her back out with a smile.
But inside, an alarm bell rang.
Someone had been going through the Langston family’s antiques.
I stepped back onto the terrace, letting the noise and lights wash over me as I scanned the crowd.
The travel influencer couple were closest. They’d positioned themselves near a vine-wrapped pillar, taking turns photographing each other sipping wine like they were auditioning for an ad campaign.
The woman kept adjusting her hair and murmuring, “No, take it again, my face is too ‘I’m trying’.”
Her partner replied seriously, “Babe, trying is the vibe.”
A few feet away, Caroline stood smiling politely with James at her side, their poise almost comical next to the influencer theatrics.
Caroline’s dress, some kind of cream satin situation that moved like liquid money, caught the light every time she moved.
James was handsome in a suit that absolutely wasn’t natural at all; it was the kind of tailoring that whispered, there were fittings.
Together, they were exactly the couple that the tabloids loved, polished, poised, and wearing outfits that probably cost more than the lighting installation.
Caroline’s mother, Margaret, hovered just behind them, straightening Caroline’s posture every time the drone swooped nearby, as though the machine were a Vogue photographer rather than a floating piece of hardware.
A YouTube famous Yoga instructor had folded herself into a nearby chair as if she was about to lead a meditation session, except she was scrolling vigorously on her phone and muttering about someone stealing her hashtag.
Emma, standing beside her with her champagne flute held like a protective shield, nodded along with the same expression she wore during complex contract negotiations, polite, composed, and deeply unimpressed.
Her little black dress had been engineered for efficiency and intimidation, and the slight arch of her eyebrow suggested she’d rather be cross-examining someone than listening to a rant about followers.
A TV actor from some long-running medical drama was charming an entire table, loudly insisting that “real doctors constantly stop him in the street to ask for advice.” The group nodded politely, though I wasn’t convinced any of them believed him.
Elaine listened kindly for far longer than anyone else could manage, her patient expression slowly melting into something that looked suspiciously like concern for the man’s state of mind.
Nearby, Ethan hovered with a half-finished drink and the unmistakable expression of a man desperately searching for a socially acceptable exit strategy.
Two guests danced awkwardly near the band’s set, swaying completely offbeat. One elbowed the other. “This will look great on my Stories.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell them the drone had captured their entire off-beat swaying in high definition.
Near them, Sophie stood barefoot on the grass, deep in conversation with a cluster of younger guests. She appeared carefree, drifting in an artistic, floaty dress, laughing easily at something one of them had said.
Farther down, the soap opera star, an older woman with immaculate hair and a dress that likely required a small army to zip, had gathered a crowd around her like she was holding court.
She brandished her wine glass as she told a story involving three co-stars, a runaway goat, and what she called “creative differences.” I wasn’t sure how the goat fit in, but her audience was enthralled.
Richard Harrington, Caroline’s father, stood behind them nodding along and captivated, despite clearly having no idea who she was.
Cleo hovered around me like a brightly coloured satellite, notebook in hand, eyes wide. She kept whispering things like, “Is that who I think it is?” and “Do you need me to remove the DJ? I can remove him.”
She’d absolutely try.
I sighed.
Celebrities, influencers, tech titans, TV stars, and the entire wedding party… all swirling together in one gloriously chaotic montage.
As the drone dipped low over the tables again, capturing a quick sweep of glamorous faces and festive light, something occurred to me.
I needed to speak to Noah.
I slipped through the side archway, away from the band’s loud set, and the music immediately dulled. The scent of truffle and champagne gave way to the cool night air and the faint smell of eucalyptus drifting in from the vineyards.
I followed the path past the rose bushes, the fairy lights overhead leading me further from the noise of the festivities.
The chatter, clinking glasses and occasional burst of laughter faded into the background until it felt like I’d stepped into a different world entirely.
And there he was.
Noah leaned against one of the old stone pillars near the side garden, half-hidden behind a vine-draped trellis. His suit jacket hung over one arm, hair a little mussed like he’d run his hand through it more than once. He was looking out over the dark rows of vines like they were calling him home.
He turned at the sound of my footsteps, and that familiar half-smile touched his face.
“Hiding?” I asked, stepping closer.
“Absolutely,” he said without apology. “I love James, but this party is… a lot.”
“A lot is one word for it,” I murmured, glancing back towards the terrace where someone was doing a dramatic slow twirl for the drone.
“If I have to hear one more guest tell me about the ‘value of heritage architecture,’ I might start drinking straight from the barrels.”
I snorted, then stopped, the memory what I had to tell him coming back to me.
His eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”
How could he tell?
I hesitated only a second before stepping closer, lowering my voice. “The housekeeper sent through a message… something was off in the east hallway.”
His posture shifted, sharpening. “What kind of off?”
“The display cabinet.” I kept my gaze on his. “Some of the pieces were moved. Not stolen. Just… handled. Put back wrong.”
His jaw tightened. “Guests?”
“I don’t think so,” I said gently. “It wasn’t messy or careless. Whoever it was knew what they were looking at.”
Noah went silent.
“And you think someone’s… searching?” he asked.
I nodded.
He looked past me, back towards the terrace.
“Does anyone else know?” he asked quietly.
“No,” I said. “Just the housekeeper and the junior staff who noticed. They didn’t think much of it. They assumed it was some over-curious guest. But…”
“It wasn’t,” he said, finishing my thought.
We stood there for a long moment, the night air cool on my skin, the hum of the crowd distant now, like it belonged to another world.
I stared at him. “But I was also thinking… with how many cameras there are here tonight…?”
Noah’s eyes widened, the realisation hitting him instantly.
The band’s videographer, the drone, the guests filming everything that moved.
“If whoever did this was around earlier,” I continued, “there’s a chance they’re on someone’s footage.”
He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared towards the event, eyes narrowed. Then he glanced back at me, focus sharper now. “That could change everything.”
“Yes, but we won’t be able to see any of the official footage for a day or two.”
He didn’t respond straight away.
Noah’s expression changed. “You shouldn’t be dealing with all this alone.”
“I’m not,” I said lightly, meeting his eyes. “You’re here.”
Something passed across his face, small enough that anyone else probably would’ve missed it.
I didn’t.
For a second, he seemed less weighed down. The line of his jaw eased. Some of the strain left his eyes.
He pushed away from the pillar and stepped closer to me. Not enough to make it obvious. Just enough that I noticed.
Close enough that my brain suddenly forgot how to behave like a normal adult.
Did I like that?
Did I like him?
Surely not. That would be wildly inconvenient.
And also… unexpected.
And also… no.
Absolutely not.
…Maybe?
I tried to brush the thought aside, but it clung on like a toddler refusing to leave a playground.
The drone buzzed low overhead, chasing the last of the golden light across the gardens. Below us, someone burst into loud, wine-fuelled laughter, followed by the unmistakable crash of glass and a chorus of dramatic “Ooohhh noooo’s.”
Neither of us moved.
Noah was still standing near enough that I could feel the heat coming off him despite the ocean wind, his eyes steady on mine in a way that made my stomach do something unhelpful and unpredictable.
Was this a thing?
Was I imagining it?
My phone buzzed loudly in my pocket.
The sound practically detonated the moment.
I jumped, blinking like I’d just been caught doing something illegal.
Noah huffed out the faintest breath and dragged a hand back through his hair, the tension between us loosening just enough for reality to sneak back in.
I pulled my phone out.
Cleo: HELP.
A second message appeared immediately after.
Cleo: The swans have escaped! One of them is chasing an influencer through the garden!
I stared at the screen for half a second before a snort escaped me, sudden and completely uncontrollable.
Noah looked over at the phone, then back at me, a smile flashing across his face.
“Well,” he said dryly, “that feels on brand for tonight.”