Chapter 5: Twenty-Two Minutes
Dorothea was waiting in the corridor with two cups of coffee she had collected from somewhere, the way she had always collected practical things during crises — quietly, without announcement, simply appearing with what was needed.
She handed one to Marguerite without a word.
Marguerite took it.
"He's listening."
"Good."
They stood together against the wall.
The carpet in the corridor was deep burgundy.
The wall sconces cast a warm light that made everything look more composed than it was.
"Vivienne is still in the lobby," Dorothea said.
"I know."
"What do we do with her?"
"Nothing yet.
She made her choice.
Now she lives in it with the rest of us."
At the far end of the corridor, the door to the bridal suite opened.
One of the bridesmaids — young, blonde, in a dress the color of champagne — stepped out and looked toward them.
Her gaze landed on Marguerite and stayed there a beat too long before she retreated back inside.
"They know something is wrong," Dorothea said.
"They've known something was wrong since the lobby.
They just don't know how wrong."
Three minutes passed.
Then five.
The groom's suite door opened.
Weston came out alone.
He had removed his boutonnière.
He was holding it loosely in one hand, the small white flower already slightly crushed from being gripped too tightly.
He walked toward them with the careful steadiness of someone who has made a decision and is not yet sure they can say it out loud.
He stopped in front of Marguerite.
"I'm not getting married today," he said.
Dorothea let out a long, slow breath.
"All right," Marguerite said.
"I need you to not say anything else right now.
I just need a minute where it's just — that.
Just that sentence."
"All right," she said again.
He stood there.
The boutonnière turned slowly in his fingers.
"I loved her," he said finally.
"I want you to know that.
Whatever she was doing, I loved who I thought she was."
"I know you did."
"I'm not angry at you.
I want to be.
It would be easier." He looked at her.
"But I keep thinking about Dad.
About the promise you made him.
And I keep thinking — she was going to take that from you.
Not just the money.
She was going to take your mind from you.
Your name.
Your credibility." His voice thinned at the edges.
"She was going to make people think you were losing your mind."
"Yes."
"And I almost let her."
"You didn't know."
"I should have—"
"Weston." Marguerite put her hand on his arm.
"You loved someone who showed you a version of herself designed to be loved.
That is not a failure of your judgment.
That is a failure of her character."
He looked down at the boutonnière.
Then he set it on the small table beside the nearest sconce, gently, as though putting something down for the last time.
"Carter is calling the officiant," he said.
"I need to speak to the guests."
"Do you want me there?"
"Yes.
But I need to do the talking."
"Of course."
"And Mom—" He paused.
"The microphone.
Whatever you planned to do at the microphone.
I want you to do it.
After I've spoken.
I want them to hear it from you."
Marguerite looked at her son — this man who had his father's jaw and his father's way of going quiet before he did something brave — and felt something shift in her chest that she had no intention of naming in a hotel corridor.
"I'll be ready," she said.
They walked toward the ballroom together.
Behind them, the bridal suite door opened again.
May you like
Priscilla's voice carried into the corridor, light and expectant: *"Is it time?"*
Nobody answered her.
