Chapter Sixteen
The noise hit me halfway up the staircase, raised voices, a muffled sob, and the distinct sound of a zipper meeting its breaking point.
Ah. Drama o’clock.
I rounded the corner into the bridal suite and stopped short.
The room resembled ‘Chaos’ by Chanel. Blush-pink gowns from Amsale hung over chair backs, Jimmy Choos were scattered across the carpet like casualties, and a half-toppled box of macarons lay forgotten on the dresser.
The faint scent of perfume lingered in the air, sweet and expensive and slightly suffocating.
The seamstress stood rigid, her tools gleaming with the kind of precision that suggested a terrifying hourly rate. She clutched a handful of pins like she might start throwing them.
Sophie, barefoot and flushed, glared at her reflection in the full-length mirror. Her cheeks were blotchy, her curls coming loose, the pale pink gown half-zipped and hanging awkwardly off one shoulder.
Emma stood nearby, arms folded, one foot tapping against the polished floor in irritation.
“For god’s sake, Sophie,” Emma said, exhaling sharply. “It’s Dior, not a straitjacket.”
“I said I’m fine,” Sophie shot back, voice trembling despite her words.
Before anyone could reply, Caroline swept in from the adjoining suite, phone pressed to her ear, her tone all clipped efficiency. “What on earth is happening?” she demanded, scanning the room. Her diamond bracelet caught the light as she gestured towards Sophie and the seamstress.
Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes as she clocked the state of Sophie.
“She keeps moving,” the seamstress said, frazzled. “I can’t pin the hem if she won’t stay still.”
“I’m not moving!” Sophie snapped, spinning towards her, which of course only made the dress twist more. “It’s just…” She stopped, her throat closing around the rest. “Never mind.”
Caroline ended her call and slipped her phone into her pocket, trying for calm. “We’re all a little on edge, that’s all. Big week.”
Emma gave an unhelpful little scoff. “Some of us more than others.”
Sophie’s jaw twitched. “Do you mind not talking about me like I’m not standing here?”
Emma raised an eyebrow. “Then stop acting like a child and stand still.”
“All right,” I said, stepping in before the situation turned physical. “Let’s all breathe. Preferably without ripping five thousand dollars’ worth of French silk.”
A couple of strained chuckles followed, but Sophie’s jaw stayed tight. The pink satin shimmered against her skin, a shade meant to flatter, now clinging like armour.
Caroline laid a careful hand on Sophie’s arm. “Sweetheart, you look beautiful. The dress is perfect.”
“It’s not the dress,” Sophie said, her voice cracking. “It’s…” She shook her head. “Look, just forget it!”
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut fabric.
“Why don’t we take a minute?” I said kindly, stepping closer. “Step out of the dress, get some air.”
Sophie exhaled and nodded. I helped her slip carefully out of the gown, the seamstress clutching it like a precious relic, relief etched across her face.
I guided Sophie towards the window where the breeze wafted in.
Behind us, Caroline was already smoothing things over with her polished, PR-proof tone, but Sophie’s shoulders were trembling beneath my hand.
Whatever this was, it wasn’t just about a hemline.
“Sorry,” she said after a beat, her voice thin. “I didn’t mean to make a scene.”
“It happens,” I said lightly. “If someone doesn’t cry at a fitting, it’s technically not a real wedding.”
That got a half-smile from her, but it was shaky. When she spoke again, her voice had dropped to almost a whisper.
“It’s just… everyone’s pretending everything’s fine, and it’s not.”
I stayed quiet, watching her reflection in the window. “What’s not fine?”
“Everything,” she said quickly, then shook her head. “I don’t know. People are lying, acting like nothing’s wrong, and it’s all so fake. I hate it.”
My instincts sharpened. “What do you mean?”
She paused. “I just… hate secrets.”
The words dropped into the air between us like a small explosion.
“Secrets?” I repeated gently.
She nodded once, still not looking at me. “The kind that make everything feel twisted. Like no one’s telling the truth, even when they’re smiling.”
I waited, certain there was more. But after a few seconds, she forced a stiff laugh. “Forget it. I’m just tired. Ignore me.”
“Of course,” I said, keeping my tone easy. “Everyone’s stretched thin.”
She nodded quickly, eager for the subject to disappear. “I should apologise to the seamstress. I didn’t mean to… you know.”
“It’s all right,” I said, giving her an encouraging pat on the arm. “We’ve all wanted to cry over a dress at some point.”
That earned me a real laugh, brief but genuine, and then she squared her shoulders and went back to the others.
Caroline and Emma turned as Sophie re-entered, both all polite smiles and freshly smoothed expressions, the kind people wear when pretending nothing just happened.
Sophie murmured an apology, voice small now, and the seamstress gave a relieved little smile, clearly deciding to take mercy as acceptance.
As I turned to leave, I peeked across at Sophie, who started fussing with the ribbons on a Dior garment bag, her face completely composed.
I made a mental note to watch that space.
I decided to check the reception layout for the tenth time. The terrace, at least, promised a brief reprieve from silk, perfume, and the collective tension of too many people pretending to enjoy themselves.
I’d barely made it three steps onto the terrace before Lucas appeared, as if conjured by the sound of my heels on the pavement. All charm, sunglasses, and that grin that said you’re welcome before he’d even opened his mouth.
His hair was a little windswept, a little smug, the kind that hinted at boats and weekends in Capri.
He held two iced coffees, condensation trailing down the cups like it had been staged.
“Well, if it isn’t our resident hero,” he said. “I heard shouting upstairs. Sounded intense. Should I be bracing for shrapnel? Or sequins?”
“Bit of both,” I said, taking the coffee before he could make a production of offering it. “Crisis contained. No casualties, unless you count a few bruised egos.”
He nodded solemnly. “Excellent work. The couture gods owe you a debt of gratitude.”
I rolled my eyes and took a sip, immediately clocking the logo on the side. “Hang on, Maison Bean? That’s in town.”
He smiled, looking unbearably pleased with himself. “Correct. I convinced Margaret to let me borrow Lady Victoria’s chauffeur this morning.”
“Borrow?”
He shrugged, the picture of unbothered wealth. “She wasn’t using him, and I wasn’t in any condition to drive. Apparently, champagne and tequila don’t pair as well as I’d hoped.”
I raised an eyebrow. “So you were still drunk?”
“Technically hungover,” he corrected. “Though I prefer to think of it as fashionably delayed recovery.”
I stared at him. “You took an eighty-year-old woman’s personal driver because you couldn’t face your own hangover.”
“Just for coffee,” he said, pointing at his. “See? Responsible. Hydration and generosity all in one morning.”
“Are you always this dramatic before noon?”
“Only when the occasion calls for it. And you, Sinclair, are absolutely an occasion.”
I groaned. “You’ve been saving that one, haven’t you?”
“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe I’m just naturally inspired by your presence.”
“Try naturally irritating.”
He chortled, a low, easy sound that gave away just enough charm to be dangerous.
“You wound me. Truly.” He glanced towards the bridal suite windows above.
For a fleeting second, his grin faltered.
Something flashed in his eyes, concern, maybe, or something closer to guilt, but it was gone before I could pin it down.
“You know,” he said after a pause, his tone suddenly lighter, “you should put me on the payroll. I’m clearly boosting morale.”
Before I could come up with something suitably cutting, someone called my name from inside, Cleo, by the sound of it. I turned, half-grateful for the interruption, though I could still feel Lucas’s grin following me like perfume.
When I looked back, Lucas was still watching me, that knowing little smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
“See you around, Sinclair.”
I watched him for a second longer than I meant to.
Because for all the charm and easy confidence, something about Lucas didn’t quite add up.