Inside, I feel wrecked.
I can still see Viktor’s face before he walked away from me.
Tears come, silent and humiliating, slipping out before I can stop them. I wipe at them, furious with myself for this, for him, for the timing of all of it. I hate that it hurts this much.
I press a hand to my face and take a slow breath.
That’s when I feel it.
A firm little movement low in my belly. Then another.
I go still.
The baby.
For one second everything else falls away. The wedding. Viktor. Ethan. Camille. All of it. It’s just me and that small, insistent kick from inside, like a reminder to come back to myself.
“Okay,” I whisper, not sure whether I’m talking to the baby or to myself. I rest my hand there and feel another shift. It steadies me more than anything else has this morning.
Then a dull discomfort pulls across my lower abdomen. Not pain exactly. Just tightness. Pressure.
I frown and wait a second, but it passes almost as quickly as it comes.
Too much stress, I tell myself.
Too much standing. Too little sleep.
I don’t have time to spiral over every ache. So I wipe my face properly, fix what I can of my makeup in the reflection of the chapel glass, and head for the bridal suite. Camille still hasn’t come down, and if someone doesn’t drag her into the day soon, the whole schedule starts slipping again.
When I knock, her voice comes through the door. “What?”
“It’s me.”
A pause.
Then, “Come in.”
I open the door and step into the room.
Camille is seated at the vanity in a silk robe, already halfway through hair but not makeup, one leg crossed over the other,expression cool enough to frost glass. Two bridesmaids are in the sitting area behind her with coffee cups and low voices, both of them going quiet when I walk in.
Camille doesn’t turn right away. She looks at me through the mirror.
“You’re late,” I say.
“I’m the bride.”
“Yes,” I say. “That’s why you’re late.”
One of the bridesmaids gives a nervous little laugh and then stops when Camille glances back at her.
Camille turns in her chair slowly. “If you’re here to tell me how important timing is, spare me.”
“I’m here to tell you the photographer is already asking questions, the musicians are in place, and if you want this day to happen the way you planned it, you need to come downstairs in ten minutes.”
She studies my face, probably looking for weakness, tears, some sign that last night or yesterday or any of the rest of it still has me off-balance.
I give her nothing.