Chapter Twenty-One
If perfection had a scent, it would be candle wax, roses, and Chardonnay.
The rehearsal dinner was in full swing, and the fairy lights were delicately blinking, doing that warm, happy twinkle I’d spent three separate inspections refining.
And honestly? Worth it.
The whole terrace felt ready to be photographed for an obscenely expensive wedding magazine, clean, serene, and just a touch smug in its own beauty.
Rows of candles were placed down the tables in a seamless formation. The silverware polished until it practically glowed. Even the personalised ice cubes, yes, with the couple’s monogram subtly frozen inside, were holding their shape beautifully in the champagne cocktails.
The floral installation above the tables was one of my proudest triumphs: a suspended canopy of white roses, eucalyptus, and imported peonies that definitely should not have been in season but somehow were, thanks to a grower who only deals with “select clientele.”
And beyond all that curated beauty, the natural landscape melted into dusk, the sky shifting from peach to lavender in a way I hadn’t planned but would absolutely accept compliments for as if I had personally arranged the weather.
A harpist in the corner plucked a rendition of a Beyoncé song so delicately that people kept squinting like they were imagining it. Meanwhile, white-gloved waitstaff moved like ghosts, topping up glasses before guests even realised they were thirsty.
It was flawless. It was extravagant. It was the kind of scene only very rich people believe is “classic and understated.”
And yes, I was extremely proud of it.
Though, annoyingly, part of my brain was still replaying the way Noah’s low “meet me later?” from the cellar like my subconscious had mistaken it for a hit song.
Which was confusing territory.
Somewhere between the missing brooch and the hidden love letters, being around Noah had started to feel… natural.
Which was, frankly, the absolute last thing I needed.
At the head of the table, Caroline was luminous. The woman could’ve walked straight off a Vogue shoot and no one would’ve questioned it.
She was wearing an impossibly sleek ivory dress, the kind of designer thing that has “dry clean only and don’t breathe near me” energy. Every seam was sharp enough to file paperwork with. Tiny beads along the neckline caught the candlelight in that “I am expensive, please admire me” sort of way.
Her hair was pulled back into one of those glossy knots that only seem to exist on Pinterest boards. Not a strand dared to move. I honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if the entire style was reinforced with industrial-grade engineering.
And yet… she seemed stiff. Not in a “bad posture” way, but in a “this is the only acceptable expression my mother approves of” way. The smile of a woman who’s been trained since childhood to glide through awkward moments as if she personally invented elegance.
James, on the other hand… oh, bless him.
He was dressed for the occasion, navy dinner jacket, crisp white shirt, fancy watch, the whole “I’m wealthy” ensemble, but he still managed to look quite overwhelmed by everything happening around him. His expression said, I’m relaxed, while his jaw said, I’ve been clenching since appetizers.
He kept doing this little half-grimace thing. You know the look men get when they’ve suddenly realised there’s no escape route and too many people are watching? That.
And together, the two of them were this flawless, polished picture, the kind that cameras love.
Except in person, up close?
They seemed like two people trying very, very hard not to set off any emotional landmines.
Richard, already on his second glass of wine, had reached the stage of loud approval. “Marvellous evening,” he declared to no one in particular. “The wine’s transcendent. Absolutely transcendent.”
Margaret sat at the centre of the long table like a general disguised as a hostess, posture so straight it could have been structural.
“Everything has gone so smoothly so far,” she said, slicing into her fish like it had personally challenged her authority.
“That’s because you and Grandmother have been so… helpful,” Caroline said, careful to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.
“Of course we have,” Margaret replied briskly. “These things don’t organise themselves. It’s a family affair, not a corporate launch.”
James looked down at his plate, smile tightening. “Everything’s been brilliant, really,” he said. His tone was calm, but with a faint note of surrender that comes from too many thank-you’s and not enough say.
Ethan caught the shift, leaning back in his chair with easy charm. “Well,” he said, “we’ve got good wine, good lighting, and an alarming amount of cutlery. I’d call that a success.”
Caroline’s snort escaped her before she could stop it. James’s eyes flicked her way, then to Ethan, and the moment folded neatly into silence.
“Ethan,” Margaret said, her tone lightening a fraction. “Always so optimistic.”
He smiled. “Survival instinct. Comes in handy for both business meetings and weddings.”
Richard barked a laugh. “Good man!”
Across the table, Lucas was mid-story, gesturing with the dramatic flair of a man who believed his life should probably already have a Netflix adaptation.
There had been several stories already that evening: the surf break he absolutely should not have attempted, the racehorse he’d nearly bought despite it apparently having “the temperament of a disgraced rock star,” and a near-fight outside a bar that, according to Lucas, ended with a handshake and mutual respect.
Sophie sat opposite, swirling her wine and pretending not to listen. The candlelight turned her hair to copper, but her usual spark was dimmed.
Every time Lucas spoke, she turned away, fiddling with the beaded bracelet around her wrist as it clicked.
“You look radiant Sophie,” Lucas said suddenly, leaning back like a man born to flirt. “If you were a wine, I’d say… young, complex, slightly unpredictable.”
Sophie didn’t glance up. “And if you were a wine,” she said, a faint blush rising to her cheeks as she took a sip, “I’d say… corked!”
Her blunt response was so unexpected and out of character, I had to turn away to hide my laugh.
But she wasn’t the only one acting out of place. From where I stood, the whole table was a study in subtle performance, everyone playing the version of themselves expected of them.
Emma was on point, in that high-gloss way people in PR seem to master by instinct. If conversation strayed, she nudged it back with an expression so polished it could have been part of the décor.
And then, like a shift in barometric pressure, the conversation dimmed. Lady Beaumont had finally arrived.
She didn’t announce herself; she simply appeared, a sweep of blue silk and diamonds, posture so regal it could shame a church.
“Mother,” Margaret said, rising instantly, voice as tight as her chignon. “You look wonderful.”
“I should,” Lady Beaumont replied smoothly, eyes gliding over the table. “I brought my own maid.”
Her attention lingered on Caroline. “My dear, radiant as ever, though a touch pale. Nerves?”
Caroline smiled, polite and fixed. “Just the excitement.”
“Good, a bride should always look like she might faint. It’s tradition.”
Ethan materialised beside her with a glass of Chardonnay. “Lady Beaumont,” he said easily. “May I offer you a drink?”
Her lips curved, faintly amused. “You must be the best man.”
“Guilty,” he said. “Though I’m still working out if that means charming or useful.”
“Start with charming,” she said, taking the glass. “We can work our way down.”
Laughter rippled again, polite, too bright, too rehearsed.
At the far end, Elaine watched the table, her eyes focussed on her son. When she caught my eye, she smiled, a small, knowing shrug that said: It’s all a bit much, isn’t it?
And she was right. Everything gleamed, the wine, the conversation, the people. But beneath it all, something fragile was beginning to strain, the way silk pulls before it tears.
The first course arrived like a small miracle. Plates drifted down in unison; silver gleamed; steam curled up and vanished.
“Have you picked your first dance?” Lucas asked into a lull, clearly hoping the answer was something upbeat I can join halfway through.
“We’ve narrowed it down,” Caroline said.
“To what?” he persisted.
“To songs,” James said, and the table chortled, grateful for the easy line.
From my corner, I watched them all recalibrate, tiny dials turning, unease lowering by degrees. This is what rehearsal dinners are for: pretending practice will make perfect.
“Tell us about the honeymoon,” Elaine prompted kindly, unaware she was tossing a conversational grenade.
“Hawaii,” James said.
“Hawaii,” Caroline said at the same time. They both stopped. Smiled. It would look charming on camera.
On the edge of the ring of light, the band playing on the lawn area slipped into a song I couldn’t name, the sort of melody that brightens anyone’s mood, and the conversation found a rhythm. Laughter rose and fell.
Margaret dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, the universal signal for let’s move things along. “Well,” she said, in the tone of a woman introducing an important cultural event, “I think it’s time for a few words.”
A ripple moved through the table. Chairs shifted. Glasses were topped up.
James stood, fingers brushing against the stem of his glass. “Right,” he said. He looked over at Caroline, who gave a small nod, the kind of nod you give a person before they dive off a high board.
He stood, clearing his throat. “I’m not much for speeches,” he began, which immediately made everyone settle a little deeper into their seats. People who say that usually are. “But I just wanted to thank everyone for being here. It means a lot, especially to Caroline and me.”
His eyes flicked around the table, to Elaine, who beamed with pride; to Richard, already halfway through his next glass; to Margaret, who nodded as though she was personally being thanked.