The flowers are wilting before I do.
They droop in their crystal vases along the aisle, white roses bowed under the heat of the chandelier, petals curling like they’re embarrassed for me. The murmur of three hundred guests turns restless, then pointed. A cough. A rustle of silk. Someone’s phone chimes and is silenced with guilty speed.
I stare at the double doors at the back of the ballroom and feel my smile going brittle at the edges.
“He’s just stuck in traffic.” Grace’s hand closes around mine, squeezing hard enough to hurt. Her voice is low, fierce, for my ears only. “You know Thomas. The man would be late to his own—”
She stops herself, and my laugh comes out thin and wrong.
“Wedding?” I offer.
Her eyes soften in an instant. “He’s coming, Lina.”
Is he?
The string quartet is looping the same tasteful classical piece for the third time. My bouquet feels heavy, stems slick against my palm. Around us, the hotel’s grand ballroom is a carefully curated dream: towering arrangements, polished marble, a floral arch built like a promise. The Winslow name is on everything from the cocktail napkins to the discreet step-and-repeat wall where, earlier, we took photos that will now never see the light of day if Thomas doesn’t—
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the planner says from somewhere just beyond the dais, voice strained with professional cheer. “We appreciate your patience. Our groom will be here shortly.”
Whispers swell like tidewater.
I can pick out individual shards.
“Did you see the news alert?”
“Something about the company—”
“Financial regulators…”
“Maybe that’s why—”
The words slide over my skin, cold and slick. I focus on breathing, on the delicate lace biting into my ribs, on the weight of everyone’s eyes. My father is at the front row, one leg jittering restlessly, staring at his phone as if he can will it to ring. My mother’s lips are pressed into a line so tight she looks carved.
Grace leans in closer, her perfume—sharp citrus, familiar—cutting through the cloying sweetness of roses. “Ignore them. This is just… a glitch.” She tries to tug a loose strand of hair back into my updo, her fingers shaky. “You look beautiful, okay? He’d have to be an idiot to—”
The side door opens.
Every head turns. Hope spikes in my throat so violently I almost choke on it.
It isn’t Thomas.
Ethan Winslow strides in like he owns the air itself.
He’s in a perfectly cut black suit, tie knotted with surgical precision, dark hair smooth, jaw clean-shaven. No boutonniere. No softness. He looks like the photos I’ve seen in the business press: controlled, unreadable, the man who’s dragged the Winslow Corporation into record profits through sheer will.
The temperature in the room seems to drop five degrees when people realize who it is, not the golden younger brother they were expecting.
Ethan’s gaze sweeps the space once, sharp and assessing, before locking on me.
Something in my chest stutters.
“Lina,” he says, ignoring everyone else. His voice is low, even, carrying with the kind of authority that makes people fall silent without quite knowing why.
I realize I’m still clutching the bouquet like a shield. “Where’s Thomas?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. That’s worse than anything he could have said.
Grace steps defensively between us, tiny and ferocious in her bridesmaid dress. “Is he okay? Did something happen?”
