Then he grinned.
“And if your ex suffers a mild existential crisis in the process, that’s included in the package.”
I laughed again.
“All right, actor. What’s our story?”
For the next hour, we invented a relationship.
We’d been dating five months.
We met at a gallery opening.
Julian worked in entertainment consulting.
We both liked old films.
He hated olives.
I loved them.
We had supposedly spent a weekend in Charleston.
“Physical affection?” he asked.
“Hand-holding is fine.”
“Arm around waist?”
“Fine.”
“Kissing?”
I nearly choked.
“Absolutely not.”
He lifted both hands.
“Professional boundaries. Understood.”
By the time we left the café, I felt strangely calm.
Saturday was supposed to be revenge.
I didn’t know it was about to become something far messier.
The afternoon of Mason’s wedding, I stood in front of my bedroom mirror wondering whether I had lost my mind.
I wore a deep emerald dress with an open back, simple gold earrings, and heels that were beautiful enough to justify the pain they would inevitably cause.
At exactly five thirty, my doorbell rang.
Julian stood outside in a black tuxedo.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then he smiled.
“Oh.”
“What?”
“Your ex is going to have an extremely difficult evening.”
I laughed.
“That’s what I’m paying you for.”
Julian offered his arm.
“No. You’re paying me to eat expensive food and lie convincingly.”
“And the existential crisis?”
“Complimentary.”
We drove to the vineyard.
The ceremony began at five.
We arrived at six fifteen.
That part was deliberate.
I had no desire to watch Mason promise lifelong loyalty to a woman he’d met while breaking that same promise to me.
I wanted the reception.
The crowd.
The moment of recognition.
Nothing more.
At least that’s what I told myself.
Hawthorne Ridge looked like something from a bridal magazine.
String lights stretched across the terrace.
White roses covered the tables.
A jazz quartet played beside the fountain.
Waiters moved between guests carrying champagne.
Julian stepped out of the car first and offered me his hand.
“You ready?”
“No.”
“Perfect.”
I stared at him.
He smiled.
“Confidence is just panic with better posture.”
I laughed, took his arm, and walked inside.
People noticed us immediately.
Some of them were former friends.
Some were Mason’s colleagues.
Several had attended our wedding seven years earlier.
I saw recognition flicker across their faces.
