The inside of my skull feels like it’s been used as a kick drum. A dull, rhythmic thudding pulses behind my eyes as consciousness bleeds in, unwanted. I peel one eyelid open. The ceiling of my suite swims into focus, a blur of white plaster. How did I get here? The last clear memory is the taxi, the neon smear of the club district, Amelia’s tense profile in the driver’s seat.

A glass of water and two ibuprofen sit precisely on the nightstand. Amelia. Of course. The caretaker’s signature. I swallow them dry, the pills scraping my throat.

My phone buzzes on the pillow beside me. A text from a group thread titled ‘Wedding Festivities – DAY 3’. Why are there so many wedding activities? It’s a siege. I scroll. Breakfast at the poolside pavilion, 9 AM. Mandatory attendance. I groan, which makes my head pound harder.

An hour later, I shuffle into the pavilion wearing oversized sunglasses and a silk kimono over my swimsuit. The scene is a portrait of collective regret. Arthur is hunched over a coffee carafe as if praying to it. Amelia, in pristine linen, is studying the itinerary with the focus of a general, but even her eyes are hidden behind tortoiseshell shades. The air is thick with the smell of bacon, coffee, and silent suffering.

I slump into a chair next to Amelia. “Water,” I croak.

“Hydration station is to your left,” she says without looking up. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“For the pills?”

“For not letting you face-plant in the hibiscus on the way to your door.”

I pour water. “Your charity is noted.”

Of course, they are late. Sebastian enters first, followed by Eleanor. He’s in a simple grey t-shirt and shorts, his face unreadable, his eyes finding me for a half-second before flicking away. Eleanor looks puffy-eyed, her smile brittle. They take seats at the far end of the table, a careful buffer zone of empty chairs between our factions. Sebastian doesn’t look at her. He doesn’t look at anyone. He just pours coffee.

Amelia clinks a spoon against her juice glass. “Right. Today’s agenda. Recovery.” A murmur of gratitude goes around the table. “Spa day. The entire resort spa has been booked for our party from eleven onward. Steam rooms, thermal pools, quiet relaxation lounges. The ladies have appointments for massages, facials, and manicures. Gentlemen, your treatments are outlined here.” She slides a sheet toward Arthur, who peers at it like it’s a complex economic model.

I sink lower in my chair. A spa day. A mandated, silent, horizontal day. It’s the first piece of good news I’ve heard in twenty-four hours.

The spa is a temple of hushed tones and eucalyptus-scented air. It’s all dark stone, flickering candles, and the distant, gentle sound of water. I’m wrapped in a fluffy robe, my hair in a towel turban, feeling marginally more human after an hour in the steam room. The plan is glorious in its simplicity: be quiet, be warm, be empty.

I’m padding toward the serene ‘Silent Relaxation Lounge,’ a room filled with heated stone loungers and diffused light, when a familiar voice cuts through the calm.

“Imogen! There you are!”

I freeze. Every muscle in my body seizes. That voice. It’s cheerful. It’s normal. It’s from a different, simpler, obliterated life.

I turn. And there he is. Mark. Handsome, smiling, striding toward me in resort-issue flip-flops and swim trunks, a towel slung over his shoulder. He looks tanned and rested. He looks like a stranger.

“Oh my god,” I breathe. The hangover, the heartbreak, the entire catastrophic week—it all condenses into a single, silent scream in my head. *I forgot to call him.*

He doesn’t slow. He closes the distance, his arms wrapping around me, pulling my robed body against his warm, solid chest. He smells like sunscreen and airport. He kisses my cheek, then my lips, a quick, firm, familiar press. “Surprise! I got an earlier flight. I tried calling, but you didn’t pick up. Your sister said you’d all be here.”

I am a statue. My arms hang at my sides. My lips are frozen where his touched them. Over his shoulder, my vision tunnels. At the entrance to the thermal pool courtyard, standing perfectly still, is Sebastian. He’s wearing only dark swim trunks, water beading on his shoulders and chest from the pool. He’s holding two glasses of cucumber water. He is looking directly at us. His expression is utterly blank. A void. Then he turns and walks away, the glasses forgotten on a side table.

“Mark,” I finally manage, pushing back gently. My voice sounds thin. “You’re here.”

“I’m here!” He grins, his brown eyes crinkling. “Couldn’t miss my girlfriend’s sister’s wedding, right? And you sounded so stressed on the phone last week. I thought you could use the backup.”

*Backup.* The word is so profoundly, tragically misplaced. I feel a hysterical laugh bubble in my throat. I swallow it. It tastes like bile.

“Wow. Yeah. Surprise.” I force a smile. It feels like a crack in plaster. “How… how was your flight?”

“Long. But worth it to see you.” He tucks a damp strand of my hair behind my ear. A gesture he’s done a hundred times. It now feels like a violation. “You look tired, Gin. Spa day is just what you need.”

“Imogen!” Amelia’s voice is a lifeline, sharp and clear. She materializes beside us, her therapist in tow. “There you are. Your facial appointment is in five minutes. They won’t hold the room.” Her gaze flicks to Mark. “Mark. Good, you found her. You’re on the men’s schedule. Deep tissue massage, room four, in twenty.”

She is a maestro of logistics, herding chaos into time slots. She takes my elbow with a firm, sisterly grip. “Come on. You don’t want to miss it.”

I let her steer me away, throwing a helpless look over my shoulder at Mark. “I’ll… see you after?”

“Go get gorgeous!” he calls, already turning to consult his treatment map.

Amelia releases me in the dim hallway. “What the hell, Imogen?” she whispers, her voice a low hiss. “You didn’t end things with him before you started whatever you were doing with Seb?”

The hallway is dark, cool, and smells faintly of eucalyptus and dread. Amelia’s grip is still on my elbow, a vise of linen-clad authority. “What the hell, Imogen?” she repeats, her whisper a blade.

I lean back against the cold stone wall, the robe suddenly suffocating. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated.” She crosses her arms. The therapist has discreetly vanished. “Define complicated.”

“I was going to end it with Mark. I was. Right before tea yesterday, I swear. I had my phone in my hand.” The words tumble out, too fast, too defensive. “But then… everything happened. Eleanor showed up. I got… distracted.”

“Distracted.” Her voice is flat. “You got distracted from ending a two-year relationship because you were making out with your future brother-in-law.”

“It wasn’t just making out, it was—” I cut myself off. What was it? A negotiation? A surrender? A confession? “It felt real. And then, before I could even breathe, Eleanor showed up. The fiancée. The secret. So what was I supposed to do, Ames? Call Mark and say ‘Hey, it’s over, also my heart just got atomized by a lying Brit?’ It didn’t seem like the right time!”

“So you’re keeping Mark on standby because Sebastian surprised us all by not telling anyone he was engaged?” Her eyes narrow behind her shades. She pushes them up onto her head, pinning me with a naked, exhausted stare. “You know what? I don’t care.”

The words land like a slap. “You… don’t care?”

“No. I don’t. This is my wedding weekend. The only one I plan on having. I have spent eighteen months color-coding spreadsheets and placating mother and ensuring Arthur’s academic calendar aligned with peak wildflower season.” Her voice is low, fierce, and utterly drained. “I do not have the emotional bandwidth for your romantic improv theater. Do not make a mess of it.”

I feel myself shrinking, the kimono sleeves swallowing my hands. “I’m not trying to—”

“You two can figure your catastrophic love square after Saturday. After I am married. After the last champagne flute is cleared. My wedding needs to go off without a hitch. Do you understand? No scenes. No tears at the altar. No dramatic confrontations in the receiving line.” She takes a step closer. “Keep it under control. Both of you.”

The pressure settles on my shoulders, a physical weight. Make Amelia’s wedding perfect. The one thing she’s ever asked me for that isn’t ‘please be quieter’ or ‘try to be normal.’

“Fine,” I say, and my voice sounds hollow even to me. “It’s fine. I can do that. I’ve been acting long enough. What’s another two days?”

She studies my face, looking for cracks. Finally, she nods, a sharp, businesslike dip of her chin. “Good. Your facial is in three minutes. Room Seven. Try to look relaxed.” She turns and walks down the hall, her silhouette neat and decisive against the soft light.

I stand there for a full minute, my forehead pressed to the cool stone. Play the parts. Right. I can be Imogen, the supportive sister. Imogen, the attentive girlfriend. I can be anyone except the girl who felt, for one sun-drenched afternoon, like she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

I skip the facial. The thought of lying still while a stranger slathers my face in placenta cream or whatever is untenable. Instead, I find my way to the resort’s private plunge pool, a small, steaming rectangle tucked in a grove of bamboo. It’s empty. The sky above is a hard, clear blue, mocking in its cheer.

Shedding the robe, I slide into the hot water in my plain black swimsuit. The heat is immediate, penetrating the ache in my muscles, doing nothing for the one in my chest. I sink until my chin touches the water, closing my eyes.

The image is burned on the backs of my eyelids. Sebastian. Water on his skin. The absolute emptiness on his face as he watched Mark kiss me. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look hurt. He looked… finished. Like he’d reached the last page of a book and closed it.

And why wouldn’t he? He has his fiancée. I have my boyfriend. We have our roles. The script is written. All we have to do is say the lines.

I stay in the water until my fingers prune and the sun moves across the sky. When I finally get out, the air feels shockingly cold. I wrap myself in the robe, a damp, shivering mess. The performance begins now. I just have to remember my cues.