Chapter Twenty-Eight
I woke up feeling like someone had stuffed my skull with gravel and shaken it for fun.
A wedding planner hangover was a rare, stupid indulgence, one I never usually allowed myself during an event weekend, but last night’s hens/bucks fusion mayhem hadn’t exactly been compatible with hydration, moderation, or wise life choices.
Still, I managed to wrestle myself into clean clothes, smooth my hair into something vaguely respectable, and fight my way through the dull throb in my head.
By the time Cleo and I reached the breakfast room, we were both upright, composed, and smiling… even if Cleo’s left eye was twitching like it wanted to leave her body.
“Remember,” I whispered as we approached the doorway, “we are professionals.”
“I am professional,” she whispered back, holding a clipboard and an electrolyte bottle like holy items. “I just happen to also be… dying.”
“Just do it quietly,” I reminded her.
We stepped inside.
The sun was far too bright. The air far too loud. And the scene before us… well.
It was carnage.
Hungover, wealthy carnage.
Cleo inhaled sharply. “Oh my god.”
I couldn’t blame her.
Caroline sat slumped at the long breakfast table, hair in a loose, chaotic bun that was definitely not Instagram-worthy. She held a mug of coffee with both hands like she was summoning spiritual strength from it.
James was beside her in a black T-shirt and dark sunglasses, looking like a man who had survived battle. He was staring down at his plate of scrambled eggs with awe.
“This is the best food I’ve ever eaten,” he said, voice hoarse.
“You said that about a bread roll last night,” Caroline murmured.
“And I meant it.”
A few seats down, Sophie sipped peppermint tea like it was oxygen. She gave me a tiny, fragile smile before returning her gaze to the table. Her colour was off. Her eyes were puffy. And she kept smoothing her robe as if holding her own body together.
Emma was… disgustingly fine.
Immaculate activewear, dewy skin, hair in a perfect ponytail, and a bowl of chia pudding that she was pretending to enjoy.
“I’m not hungover,” she announced, as if anyone had accused her. “I’m just slightly… dehydrated.”
Cleo snickered beside me.
Across from them, Noah seemed in okay shape for a man who definitely drank an irresponsible amount of whiskey.
Although I did notice that every time someone dropped a piece of cutlery, and it happened often, he flinched.
I found it unfair how good he managed to look while clearly fighting for his life.
On the smaller table near the window sat the parents, entirely too pleased with the pain around them.
Elaine Quinn sipped her tea serenely. Margaret Harrington nibbled toast with the enthusiasm of a judge critiquing technique.
Richard Harrington had his nose in the morning paper as usual, while Lady Beaumont observed the room with the calm satisfaction of someone who felt morally superior.
As we approached the table to check on everyone, the flashbacks began.
“Did… did I challenge the chef to karaoke?” Cleo whispered to me.
“Yes.”
“Crap.”
James muttered into his coffee, “I have a vague memory of Lucas dancing on a wine barrel?”
“He did,” I confirmed.
“He fell?”
I hesitated. “Not off the barrel.”
Caroline groaned. “Oh god.”
“And someone…” Cleo surveyed the room like a spy assessing threats, “someone convinced Lady Beaumont to take a tequila shot.”
Emma raised a hand. “That was me.”
Lady Beaumont did not deny it. She simply sipped her tea and said, “Just because I’m old, doesn’t mean I’m dead.”
Cleo buried her face in her clipboard to hide her grin.
Through the laughter and groaning, through the sunglasses and watery eyes… I couldn’t relax.
Not for a second.
The wedding was tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
And unless we found that bloody brooch today, my career was going to fall apart.
I waited for Cleo to distracted the table, outlining the day’s events, and leaned towards Noah.
“We’re out of time,” I murmured. “If the brooch isn’t found today, we’ll have to go to the police.”
His expression sharpened immediately.
The hangover haze evaporated.
“We’ll find it, Holly,” he said. “Let’s check everywhere guests were last night. Someone had to leave some kind of clue behind.”
I nodded, my chest feeling tight.
We slipped out of the room, leaving the hungover wealthy guests to their coffee, electrolytes, and regrets.
Our temples throbbed.
Our steps wobbled.
But the mission was clear.
The private tasting room looked like a hurricane had passed through, gotten confused, doubled back, and then decided to take up permanent residence.
Glitter coated every surface, the tables, the chairs, the floorboards, even the walls.
A half-deflated penis balloon drooped sadly in the corner like it, too, regretted last night.
A few blinking LED tiaras still flashed from beneath overturned champagne flutes, pulsing like tiny disco distress signals.
The room smelled faintly of rosewater, sugar, and expensive shame.
“Wow,” Noah muttered, stepping inside beside me. “This is… something.”
“It looks like a crime scene,” I said grimly.
Staff were only just filtering in, moving tentatively as if they feared the glitter might bite. One of them gave us a look that said do not ask how long this will take.
Noah and I stepped further in, instinctively splitting up, him scanning the tables, me checking under the ledges, but somehow still moving around each other with that awkward, charged awareness I could never quite shake.
Every time we reached for the same item, a fallen champagne flute, a crumpled sash, our hands almost touched. And every time our eyes met, I turned away first, cheeks heating for absolutely no reason.
“So,” he said after a moment, nudging aside a pile of confetti with his shoe, “last night was… memorable.”
“That’s one word.”
“You have another?”
“Not one I should say in front of staff.”
I looked over as Noah chuckled, and behind him I caught the faint glint of something beneath a velvet stool.
At first I thought it was just another champagne cork abandoned in the chaos of the night, but then the light caught it properly. A sharp flash of gold.
My stomach tightened.
“Noah,” I said slowly. “Move.”
I crouched down.
“What is that?” Noah asked, leaning closer.
My fingers brushed glitter aside until they closed around something cool and metal.
A locket.
A delicate, antique-style locket with a twisted chain, with a tiny hinge on one side.
A flashback hit hard and fast: The antique store.
Evelyn’s gentle voice saying the mystery shopper looking to sell an item, had ended up buying “A locket perhaps, or a pin.”
A locket.
Oh God.
Noah stared at it, jaw tightening. “Do you think this is the same person who’s been searching the estate? The one who broke into the East Wing cabinet? And who went to the antique store?”
“It has to be,” I whispered.
A cold shiver slid down my spine. Whoever last handled this bit of jewellery had been here. In this room. Among the guests. Among us.
A shadow moved across the doorway.
Noah’s head lifted. “Someone’s outside.”
I turned just in time to see Cooper, Lady Beaumont’s driver, walking briskly past, checking his watch, posture stiff and strangely urgent.
Without thinking, I rushed towards the doorway.
“Cooper!” I called.
He stopped immediately, straightening in that trained, old-school butler-esque way.
“Ms Sinclair,” he said politely. “Mr Langston.”
Noah nodded to him.
I held up the locket. “Do you recognise this?”
For the briefest fraction of a second, a flicker, a flash, Cooper’s expression cracked.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. His eyes widened by the tiniest millimetre.
He recovered almost immediately, clearing his throat. “Yes. I know who this belongs to.”
Noah shifted beside me, voice low. “Who?”
Cooper held out a hand. “That is a private matter.” he said smoothly. “Please allow me to return it to its rightful owner.”
Something cold settled in my gut.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “We’d like to…”
“I will handle it,” he said, with the polite firmness of someone who had just ended the conversation.
He slipped the locket into his inside jacket pocket, nodded once, turned, and strode away with purposeful steps, straight towards the west wing.
Noah and I stood frozen for a heartbeat before our eyes met.
“Holly,” he murmured, voice low, “that was… weird.”
“Extremely.” I nodded.
“He didn’t even pretend.”
“No.”
We watched Cooper disappear down the hallway, his pace too quick for casual, too nervous for professional.
I inhaled slowly, adrenaline threading through my veins.
“We’re following him,” I whispered.
Noah gave me a look, half exasperation, half admiration, wholly aligned with my own pulse.
“Obviously.”