Chapter 1

Sienna

The mail lands on the mat with a soft thud, and I don’t even have to look. I know what it is.

“Is that the holy grail you’ve been stalking the mailman for?” Marcus calls from the kitchen. The scent of garlic and roasting chicken wafts into the living room, a cozy, familiar cloud.

“Could be,” I call back, pushing myself off the sofa where I’ve been trying—and failing—to sketch the view of the Chicago skyline from our window. I retrieve the single, heavy envelope from the floor. It feels like a small, cream-colored brick. “Or it could be a very fancy jury summons.”

Marcus leans against the doorframe, a dish towel slung over his shoulder and a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “My money’s on the wedding. Zoe’s not exactly the subtle type.”

“An insult to understated women everywhere,” I say, sliding my thumb under the heavy wax seal. The paper inside is just as decadent, thick and textured. “And you’re right, of course.”

I scan the details, a real, unforced smile spreading across my face. The Governor Thomas Bennett House. Charleston. The third weekend of October.

“She’s getting married in the Bennett House?” I murmur, tracing the gold foil script. “That’s… ambitious.”

“That’s Zoe,” Marcus says, coming up behind me. He wraps his arms around my waist, resting his chin on my shoulder to read over the card. “I like her style. Go big or go home.”

“Her mother’s style, you mean,” I correct, leaning back against his solid frame. “Zoe would have been happy with a city hall elopement and a taco truck.” The warmth of his body is a comfort, the steady beat of his heart against my back a familiar rhythm. I feel safe here, in this apartment, in this life we’ve built.

My eyes find my name listed under Maid of Honor. A little thrill goes through me. “Well, look at that. I have official duties.”

“As if there was ever any doubt,” he chuckles, his lips brushing my temple. “You’re her person. Who’s on the other side? The Best—”

He stops. But I’m already there. My eyes have already found it, the one detail I’ve been subconsciously dreading for months. The name that feels like a glitch in the serene code of my life.

Best Man: Julian Rothwell

The air doesn’t leave my lungs. It freezes. It turns solid, a block of ice lodging itself right under my ribs. The heavy cardstock suddenly feels flimsy, in danger of buckling under the pressure of my grip.

Marcus feels the shift instantly. The easy, relaxed way I was leaning against him evaporates. I’ve gone rigid.

“Sienna?” His voice is soft, questioning. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I force a laugh, but it comes out thin, brittle. “Worse. I’ve seen a seating chart.” I pivot in his arms to face him, pasting on a smile I hope looks more convincing than it feels.

“Bad table?” He plays along, but his eyes, a warm, intelligent brown, are searching mine for the truth. “Stuck next to some great-aunt who only talks about her hip replacement?”

“Something like that,”my voice came out as a thin wire, stretched to the breaking point. “More of a… college relic.”

His brow furrows in recognition. “Rothwell. As in, Julian Rothwell?” He takes the invitation from my hands, his gaze flicking between my face and the name printed in elegant gold. “The infamous Chapter One of the Sienna Bell Story?”

He’s teasing, trying to lighten the mood, but the words land like small, sharp stones. I snatch the invitation back, smoothing a non-existent crease.

“Let’s call him the prologue,” I say, aiming for breezy and probably landing on flustered. “The part you skip to get to the good stuff.” I give him a quick kiss, a frantic attempt at misdirection.

It doesn’t work. He catches my face in his hands, his thumbs stroking my cheeks. “I don’t know, I think prologues are important. They set the tone. And the tone just shifted from ‘happy wedding bells’ to ‘impending doom.’”

“Don’t be so dramatic. The only impending doom is what these bridesmaid dresses are going to look like.”

“Nice try,” he murmurs, his gaze unwavering. “You get this little line between your eyebrows whenever you’re trying to pretend something doesn’t bother you. It’s there right now. It’s practically screaming.”

I touch my forehead self-consciously. “It’s a crease of deep thought. I’m contemplating the logistics of open bars and uncomfortable shoes.”

“Uh-huh. And it has nothing to do with the guy you once told me was a ‘beautiful, chaotic mistake’?” He’s quoting me, from a late night over a bottle of wine two years ago when I’d been feeling particularly honest. The fact that he remembers the exact phrase sends a pang of guilt through me. He listens. He always listens.

“He was a mistake, but we were nineteen,” I say, pulling away to create some space, needing to breathe air that isn’t filled with his perceptive, knowing scent. “Everything at that age is beautiful and chaotic. It’s a non-issue, Marcus. Ancient history.”

“So ancient that the name makes you look like you’re preparing for a tax audit.”

“It’s just… a surprise,” I lie, moving into the kitchen to find a magnet for the fridge. An act of normalcy. See? I’m putting the harbinger of my emotional apocalypse right here, next to the takeout menu. “I haven’t seen or spoken to the guy in a decade.”

“And you’re about to spend a whole weekend with him. As the two heads of the wedding party,” he points out, following me. He leans against the counter, crossing his arms. He’s not angry, not even suspicious. He’s just… connecting the dots. “Welcome party, rehearsal, the actual dinner. That’s a lot of forced mingling for a ‘non-issue.’”

“It’s a two-hour ceremony and a party, not a seven-day cruise,” I retort, my voice sharper than I intend. “We’ll stand on opposite sides of the altar. We’ll make one toast together. It’s practically social distancing.”

“Sienna.” He says my name quietly, and the sound cuts through my frantic deflections. “It’s okay if it’s weird. He’s the ex who, and I quote, ‘broke your heart so badly you switched majors.’ I’d say you’ve earned the right to a little weirdness.”

He’s trying to give me an out, a simple explanation for the tension radiating from my skin. Heartbreak. It’s a clean, simple word. But what happened was so much messier than that. It wasn't a break; it was a demolition. And I was the one holding the detonator, a fact I’ve never told a single soul, not even Zoe.

“He didn’t switch my major,” I say, focusing on the one inaccuracy I can correct. “I switched from art history to studio art. It was an upgrade.”

“Right after he shattered your world into a million pieces,” Marcus finishes for me, his tone gentle. “Babe, I’m on your side. I’m just saying, I get it. The guy’s an ass.”

“He’s not an ass,” I say, the defense automatic, reflexive. I clamp my mouth shut.

Marcus raises an eyebrow. “He’s not? The guy who broke your heart isn’t an ass? That’s a new one.”

I sigh, turning to face him, my back against the cold stainless steel of the refrigerator. “It was complicated. We were young. We grew apart.” The familiar, flimsy script feels more dishonest than ever.

“Okay,” he says, drawing the word out. He doesn’t believe me. Not for a second. He pushes off the counter and closes the distance between us. He takes my hands in his, his grip warm and steadying. “Okay. So you’ll go to Charleston, you’ll be the best Maid of Honor in history, and you’ll ignore the complicated, not-an-ass, ancient-history ex-boyfriend. And you’ll be fine.”

“Exactly,” I say, latching onto his summary with a desperate sense of relief. “I’ll be fine.”

“But,” he adds, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You look like you could use some backup.”

A knot of dread forms in my stomach. “Backup? What, are you going to hire a security detail?”

“Thinking something a little more personal.” He gets a thoughtful look on his face, the one he gets right before he solves a complex design problem. “You know, I’ve got a mountain of vacation time. And I’ve never really done the whole Southern charm thing. All those historic buildings…”

“Marcus,” I interrupt, my voice coming out as a strangled whisper. “No.”

“Why not?” he asks, his expression one of genuine curiosity. “I want to. I could finally meet Zoe and David properly. And if this ‘college relic’ decides to get nostalgic, I can be there to run interference. Consider me your designated buffer. Your professional fetcher of champagne. It’ll be fun.”

The offer is perfect. It’s loving. It’s logical. And it’s the absolute last thing in the world I want. It’s an offer I can’t refuse without shattering the carefully curated story of my past. Saying no is an admission of guilt, an admission of fear. It’s a confession that Julian Rothwell isn’t a prologue. He’s a landmine.

And Marcus just offered to walk right over it with me.

I look into his kind, handsome face, and all I can see is the impending collision of two worlds I have spent a decade keeping apart. My past and my present, my chaos and my calm. All in one jasmine-scented, champagne-fueled weekend.

I have to smile. It’s the only option. I let the expression stretch my lips, hoping it reaches my eyes.

“Okay,” I say, the word feeling like a surrender. “That would be… really great, actually.”