She hesitates—just a second too long—eyes drifting back to the palms, the lights, the laughter.
I don’t give her time to recover.
I catch her by the elbow—firm, not gentle—and steer her around the side of the venue, past the palms, past the string lights, past the illusion. We slip into the service alley where the magic dies: dumpsters, caterers hustling trays, the smell of fryer oil and spilled champagne.
Real life.
She stumbles once. I don’t let go.
“Please,” she whispers again. “Tony—please don’t call the cops.”
I stop, turn on her so fast she almost collides with my chest.
I pull my wallet out, peel off a hundred, press it into the hand of a guy unloading linens. “Take a smoke break,” I say. He looksat me, looks at her, pockets the bill, and disappears without a word.
Then I lean in.
“Now listen to me, Sage,” I say quietly. Calm. Dead calm. “This is how it’s gonna be.”
Her eyes flick everywhere but my face.
“I’m keeping this last dirty secret of yours,” I continue. “This—” I gesture vaguely toward the wedding, the camera, the stunt—“this is the end of the line. You and me? When I get back from my honeymoon, you’re meeting me downtown. In my office.”
I pull a card from my pocket and press it into her palm. She stares at it like it’s radioactive.
“If I so much assniffa fart drifting Ethan’s way,” I say, low and precise, “I will nail your ass to the wall. And this time? You’re going clink-clink, honey. And you are not coming out.”
Her breath shudders.
“My family has connections in this city,” I go on. “The kind you don’t Google. You hear me? You’ve been running this bullshit way too long, and it ends now.”
Her jaw trembles. “Is he… happy?” she asks. Small. Barely there.
I don’t soften.
“I’m not telling you a damn thing except this—stay out of his life.”
I take a step closer.
“And if you know what’s good for you, you’re going to move on. In fact,” I say, voice dropping even further, “I’m going to help you do exactly that.”
She looks up, startled.
“When I get back,” I continue, “you’re picking a place. Not somewhere you can hop in a car and show back up. I’m talking a plane ride. Three hours minimum.”
I start ticking them off on my fingers.
“Chicago. Cold as hell, but there’s a lake. You can pretend it’s the beach. Florida—sun, distraction. California. Gulf. You tell me where.”
She shakes her head, tears spilling now.
“I’ll help you start over,” I say. “I mean it. New city. New job. New story.”
Her lips part.
“You know why?” I add. “Because he’s my best friend. And he loved you. He really did. But love doesn’t mean you belong together. And it sure as shit doesn’t mean you get to burn his life down. Over and over again like romantic comedy that decide to turn itself into a psychological thriller.”
Her eyes flash—anger, fear, something feral.
