The steam from my shower hasn't even fully cleared from the mirror when I snatch my phone, my thumb hovering over Mark’s contact. It’s time. It’s past time. The thought is a cold, hard pebble in my stomach. I press call.

It rings once. Twice.

Then my screen flashes with an incoming call. Amelia. Of course. The universe hates decisive moments.

I decline Mark’s call and answer. “Ames?”

“Where are you? I need you. Now. Our cabana. Before tea.” Her voice is a tight wire, the kind she uses when a spreadsheet column won’t sum.

“I’m coming.”

I throw on the first thing my hands find—a simple, knee-length linen dress the color of dried sage. It feels like a costume for a quieter, calmer person. I don’t bother with shoes. The path to her cabana is smooth stone, still warm from the day.

She’s waiting outside, pacing a short, precise line. She looks like a magazine spread for ‘Destination Wedding Agony.’ Sleek black hair, impeccable cream trousers, a silk shell. She stops when she sees me.

“Okay. Talk. What’s the five-alarm fire?” I try to sound light. It comes out thin.

She doesn’t smile. She just looks at me, her hazel eyes doing that laser-scan thing that always makes me feel like a bug under glass. “You and Sebastian.”

My heart performs a neat, terrifying backflip. “What about us?”

“Don’t. Just… don’t.” She rubs her temples. “I have a list of twelve remaining vendor confirmations, my future mother-in-law is a passive-aggressive masterclass, and my sister is making moon eyes at my future brother-in-law’s brother across every dinner table. I see it, Imogen. The looks. The tension. The sudden, coordinated disappearances.”

I open my mouth to perform, to deflect, to quote some Wilde about the truth being rarely pure and never simple. Nothing comes out.

Her shoulders drop, just a fraction. “I’m not going to tell you what to do. You’re twenty-four. You’re a disaster, but you’re an adult disaster.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“But this?” She gestures vaguely at the resort, the world. “This wedding? It is not your stage. It is not a plot point in your romantic tragedy. It is my real life. Arthur’s real life. Sebastian’s real life.” She steps closer, her voice dropping. “If you turn this into a dramatic fiasco, Imogen, I will never forgive you. Do you understand? Never.”

The words aren’t shouted. They’re measured, chilled, and they sink into my bones. This isn’t Amelia the exasperated sister. This is Amelia the force of nature, the builder of a life, and she’s showing me the foundation. It’s terrifyingly solid.

All my drama deflates, leaving something raw and shameful. “I don’t want to be a fiasco,” I whisper, and it’s the truest thing I’ve said all day.

She studies me, her expression softening a hair. “I know you don’t. Just… be smart. For once. Be careful.”

“I swear I won’t… make a scene.” The promise feels flimsy, but it’s all I have.

She nods, once. The business is concluded. “Good. Now come on. Tea awaits. Try to look like you haven’t just been contemplating the ruin of all our lives.”

Tea is a minefield served on fine china.

It’s set up on the main villa’s terrace, overlooking the sea that still feels like our secret. The sun is a low, honeyed gold, painting everything in a forgiving light that lies. My parents are there, my mother already three tales deep into a story about a celebrity she almost met at an airport. Arthur is listening with genuine, kind interest. Sebastian is already seated.

Our eyes meet for a split second as I approach. His blue gaze is a storm warning. He looks… stretched. Like a wire pulled too tight. He gives me the barest nod, a movement so small only someone watching for it—someone like me, someone who’s tasted the salt on his skin—would see it.

“Ah, Imogen! There you are,” my father booms. “We were just hearing about your aquatic adventures.”

I slide into a chair, feeling Sebastian’s attention like a physical heat on my cheek. “Just a swim,” I say, my voice miraculously steady.

The conversation flows like tepid syrup. The weather. The resort’s sustainability initiatives. The merits of loose-leaf versus bagged tea. Sebastian participates with his usual clipped, polite efficiency, but there’s a vibration underneath. I see it in the way his thumb rubs a tiny, relentless circle on the handle of his cup. In the way his eyes keep cutting to me, then away, as if checking I’m still there, still real.

He tries, once. As my mother distracts Arthur with a question about bond markets, Sebastian leans forward slightly. “Imogen, did you—”

“Sebastian, darling,” my mother trills, turning back. “Elizabeth was just telling me about your lovely flat in London. Will you keep it?”

The moment shatters. He leans back, his jaw tightening. “Undecided as of yet.”

He doesn’t get another chance. The tea is a performance, and we are all trapped on stage. I feel his frustration like a live wire between us, humming with things unsaid. The confession from the beach is a ghost at the table, sitting in the empty chair beside him.

As the last cup is drained, Amelia stands, tapping her teaspoon against her saucer with a clear, ringing sound. “Alright, everyone. Attention.” She puts on her warm, hostess smile. “The next phase of operations begins. The bridal party—myself, Imogen, Kara, Lucy, and the other bridesmaids—will be retreating for a bridal shower with the moms. Then, later tonight, the traditional separate bachelor and bachelorette parties.”

A polite round of applause. Arthur grins, looking endearingly nervous. My father makes a joke about keeping Arthur out of trouble. Sebastian is staring at his empty cup, his expression unreadable.

It’s as we’re all standing, chairs scraping, that the terrace doors open again.

Elizabeth Fairfax glides out, her arm linked with another woman’s. “Oh, you’re all still here! Perfect.”

The woman beside her is stunning. Tall, willowy, with a cascade of honey-blonde hair that looks expensive even in the casual resort breeze. She has one of those faces—porcelain skin, high cheekbones, eyes the crystalline blue of a glacial lake. She wears effortless linen trousers and a simple tank, and she moves with the serene confidence of someone who has never tripped in her life.

“Everyone,” Elizabeth says, her voice bright and proud. “This is Eleanor. She just flew in as a wonderful surprise! She’s a very dear family friend.” Elizabeth’s hand pats Eleanor’s arm, and she turns a beaming, significant look toward Sebastian. “Practically family, really. Sebastian’s fiancée.”

The word hits the air like a physical object.

Fiancée.

For a second, there is absolute, ringing silence. The world tilts on its axis, the honeyed light now feeling sickly and false.

I see Arthur’s face go blank with shock. Amelia’s eyes widen, then immediately dart to me, her earlier warning flashing between us like a neon sign.

And Sebastian. He looks… pale. His body is rigid. He’s staring at Eleanor, not with joy, but with something that looks like pure, unadulterated dread.

Eleanor smiles, a perfect, warm curve of her lips. She detaches from Elizabeth and walks straight to Sebastian. “Hello, you,” she says, her voice a soft, cultured English melody. She leans in and kisses his cheek. He doesn’t move to receive it. He just stands there, a statue.

“Eleanor,” he says. The single word is flat, hollow.

“Surprise,” she whispers, just for him, but the terrace is quiet enough for us all to hear. “I couldn’t let you have all this fun without me.”

She turns back to the group, her smile encompassing everyone. “Please, don’t let me interrupt! I’m just so thrilled to finally meet you all. Amelia, Arthur, congratulations. This place is magical.”

People start to move again, the sound rushing back in a wave. My mother is exclaiming over the romantic surprise. My father is introducing himself. Arthur is stammering a welcome.

I am absolutely, perfectly still. I feel the cold stone of the terrace under my bare feet. I smell the jasmine, now cloying and suffocating. I see Eleanor’s slender, manicured hand rest possessively on Sebastian’s forearm. He doesn’t shake it off.

His eyes find mine over the top of her blonde head. The storm in them has broken into pure, desperate anguish. It’s a look that confirms everything and destroys everything all at once.

This was the confession. This was the thing he needed to tell me.

Amelia appears at my side, her hand closing around my elbow with a firm, grounding pressure. “Imogen,” she says, her voice low and urgent. “Bridal shower. Now.”

She pulls me away. I let her. My body feels numb, disconnected. As I’m led off the terrace, I take one last look back.

Sebastian is still staring after me, Eleanor smiling up at him, utterly oblivious to the ruin she just walked into. The unspoken secret isn’t hanging between us anymore.

It’s just lying there, on the beautiful terra-cotta tiles, shattered into a thousand sharp, glittering pieces.