The wedding hall glimmered like a palace carved from light — chandeliers dripping in crystal, golden trim catching every flicker of candlelight. A dream, really. But for me? A gilded cage.
I spotted it the second I walked in: Table 12.
The Singles’ Table. Or as my dear sister Lydia likely called it, Hannah’s Humbling Station.
She was radiant on the stage, the center of everything — veil cascading like moonlight, smile sharpened like a blade. She didn’t just look like royalty. She believed it. And I? I was her court jester. Thirty-two, unmarried, unaccompanied, and — in her view — embarrassingly available.
Then came the bouquet toss.
“All the single ladies!” the DJ cried like a herald summoning sheep to slaughter.
I tried to backpedal, but the maid of honor had me in a death grip. My heels scraped against the marble. Lydia’s eyes locked with mine. Her grin widened like a noose tightening.
The bouquet soared — but it wasn’t a toss. It was a targeted missile, arcing toward a pack of overzealous bridesmaids on the opposite side. I wasn’t meant to catch it. I was meant to be seen not catching it.
The crowd burst out laughing.
“Guess Hannah’s still on the market!”
I froze, caught in a storm of heat and humiliation. Until—
“Act like you’re with me.”
A voice, low and controlled, right behind me.
I turned. He stood tall, confident — like he belonged somewhere far more important than this circus. Clean-cut. Cool. Intense eyes that didn’t just look at you, but through you.
“Your sister hasn’t shut up about you,” he said smoothly. “Thought you might need backup.”
Before I could answer, he slid into the chair beside me. Took my hand like it belonged there. Like we belonged.
“I’m William. Richard’s cousin.”
A chuckle escaped me — unplanned, real. The first honest sound I’d made all night. “And I’m Hannah — the cautionary tale.”
Then Lydia spotted us.
Her expression curdled. She swanned over, lace and venom bundled in a wedding gown.
“Hannah,” she purred. “Didn’t know you knew William.”
“Old friends,” William answered. Calm, smooth. One hand on mine.
Her eyes narrowed. “Really?”
“I like to keep things quiet,” I said. “You know how I am. About balance.”
Her lips parted. No response. For once, Lydia was off-script.
People turned to look. Murmurs began. The bride’s mask began to slide.
And then — the moment broke.
Lydia gave a brittle laugh. “Well. Don’t cause too much drama, you two.”
She drifted off, but I felt the storm in her wake. I exhaled — then turned to William.
“I owe you,” I whispered. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“No,” he said, eyes scanning the room. “But it wasn’t just for show.”
Something in his tone made me pause.
“What do you mean?”
He leaned in, his voice low. “I’m here looking for something. Or someone.”
“What?”
His jaw tightened. “There’s a reason your sister wanted you humiliated tonight. She didn’t want you noticed. She didn’t want anyone close.”
A chill threaded through me. “You’re not really Richard’s cousin, are you?”
He shook his head. “I work with people who investigate… unusual things.”
I blinked. “Like what? Scandals?”
“Like disappearances. Cover-ups. Crimes the rich can bury under marble and crystal.”
I stared at him.
He continued. “Three of Lydia’s past business partners have vanished in the last five years. No bodies. Just… gone.”
“She’s a wedding planner.”
“She’s also co-owner of an offshore investment firm registered in five countries. Two of those partners went missing weeks after transferring assets into her name. The third sent a final text: ‘She’s not who you think she is.’ Then nothing.”
My mouth was dry. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because tonight, she was watching you like a threat. That means you’re important. You’re her weak spot. Or her loose end.”
My breath hitched. “You think she’d hurt me?”
“I think,” he said carefully, “you already suspect she could.”
And I did.
Memories slid into place like blades: the car that veered toward me last summer, the gas leak in my old apartment, the “accidental” deletion of key client files that almost cost me my job.
I never proved anything. I never dared.
But now?
“She’s hiding something,” William said. “And you’re going to help me find it.”
I stared at the dance floor — Lydia spinning in her white dress like a spider at the center of her web.
“What do we do?” I asked.
William stood and offered his hand again. “We dance.”
So we did.
On the surface, it looked like a fairytale — the fallen sister and the stranger from nowhere. But as we twirled closer to the bride, I slipped a USB into Lydia’s handbag. The decoy. The real one, holding encrypted records from her locked laptop — the one I “accidentally” borrowed during yesterday’s rehearsal — was already in William’s coat pocket.
She never saw it coming.
The song ended. Lydia clapped, laughed. But her eyes? They were no longer triumphant.
They were calculating.
She knew something had changed.
But it was too late.
Two hours later, as she and Richard drove off into the night, we got the call.
Interpol had matched the financial records. Warrants were being prepared.
Lydia’s honeymoon would be brief.
And I?
I was finally free of her shadow.
Funny how a bouquet toss turned into a takedown.
And how pretending to be with someone… became real.