The person waiting near the entrance was not a guest. He was a process server, hired by Rachel, holding a sealed envelope with Bryce’s name printed across the front. As three hundred, no, two hundred fifty guests milled across the lawn, the string quartet had already packed up, unpaid, and the catering vans were pulling away one by one. Bryce stood frozen in his tuxedo, phone pressed to his ear, watching his dream unravel in real time.

Then I walked through the garden gate in a simple black dress, and Larissa saw me first. Her champagne glass trembled. Bryce turned, and every ounce of his practiced charm collapsed. “Claire,” he started, “you don’t understand.” But I was already close enough to whisper the words I had driven two hours to deliver. “We’re not done yet.” Because the estate itself, the venue they were standing in, had been booked and secured under my company’s account, and I had come to collect far more than an apology.