She doesn’t.
Black pants. White collared shirt. Black blazer—too stiff, too intentional. Hair dyed brown, pulled back tight like she’s trying to erase herself. Camera in her hands. Knuckles white.
She’s holding her breath.
Not the photographer we hired.
Not even close.
I feel my jaw lock.
I walk straight toward her.
She turns when she senses me, eyes widening just enough to confirm it.
“Hey, Sage,” I say evenly. “Been a while.”
Her mouth opens. Closes.
“The fuck are you doing crashing my wedding?”
“I—” Her voice trembles. “I’m sorry. Please, just don’t?—”
“Don’t what?” I step closer, blocking her view of the reception. “Call the cops and add this shit to your record?”
Her shoulders drop a fraction.
“Nah,” I add flatly. “Been there. Done that already.”
She swallows hard.
“I just wanted to see him,” she says. Quiet. Careful. “I won’t stay. I swear.”
I let out a short, humorless laugh.
“You don’t get to swear shit to me, Sage.”
Her eyes flick past me, searching the crowd.
I shift—deliberate—cutting off her line of sight.
“You need to leave,” I tell her. “Now. Before you turn this into something ugly.”
Tears well fast. Too fast.
“I loved him,” she whispers. “You know I did.”
I lean in, keeping my voice low. Controlled.
“No,” I say. “You loved chaos. You loved control. And today? Today is not about you.”
Her breath stutters. She nods once, sharp and jerky.
“I didn’t mean?—”
“I know,” I cut in. “That’s the problem.”
I gesture toward the exit. I don’t touch her. I don’t need to.
