Dominic turned to Maxwell. "Go after her."
Maxwell stared at him. "What?"
"Go after her. Tell her I need five minutes. Tell her it was a slip — nerves, the pressure — tell her I need five minutes and I can explain."
"Dom. She's gone."
"She's upstairs. She's in the bridal suite. Just go up and?—"
"She'sgone, Dom. Did you see her face? She's not coming back down for five minutes or five hours or?—"
"Then I'll go." Dominic stepped down from the altar. Maxwell caught his arm.
"No. You’re not going up there right now. That is the worst possible thing you could do right now."
"I need to talk to her."
"You need to let her breathe."
"If I can just explain?—"
"Explainwhat?" Maxwell’s voice dropped, hard and direct, the voice he used in depositions. "What are you going to explain? That you accidentally said your ex-girlfriend's name at your own wedding? While your fiancée was standing there with tears on her face from vows she wrote during her lunch break?"
Dominic flinched. The words were like a slap, and for a fraction of a second the machinery of his composure faltered. Something raw and exposed, and then he sealed it over. He was good at sealing things over. He'd had a lifetime of practice.
"Handle the room," he said. "Say something. Tell them — tell them we're taking a brief pause."
"Abrief pause."
"Maxwell. Please."
Maxwell looked at him for a long moment. Then he turned to the guests. He cleared his throat. "Folks, we're going to take a short break. Please help yourselves to the bar in the reception hall. We'll have an update for you shortly."
The room moved. Slowly, awkwardly; they wanted to stay and watch but knew they shouldn't. Guests filed toward the reception hall, and the whispers swelled as they went, fragments reaching Dominic like shrapnel.
Did he say another woman's name?
I think he said — Jacqueline? Who's Jacqueline?
Oh my god, that poor girl.
That poor girl.Charlotte. They were talking about Charlotte. His Charlotte, who'd stood here five minutes ago and told everyone that she chose him, and he'd repaid her by proving she'd chosen wrong.
He pushed the thought down. He'd deal with the feeling later. Right now he needed logistics.
He pulled out his phone. Called Charlotte. It rang four times and went to voicemail. He tried again. Voicemail. He texted:Charlotte, please let me explain. It was nerves. It meant nothing. Please call me back.
He stared at the screen. The message showed as delivered. No response.
He called Kate. It rang once and cut to silence: manually rejected, not voicemail. Kate had looked at his name on her screen and pressed decline. He tried again. Same thing.
He was typing a second text to Charlotte when his mother appeared at his elbow.
Ginnifer Weston was a woman who could communicate fury at a frequency only her children could detect. Her face was composed. Her posture was flawless. Her hand on his arm had the grip strength of a vise.
"Walk with me," she said. "Now."
She steered him through the side entrance and into a service corridor. Beige walls, fluorescent lights, the unglamorous backstage of the Whitley Hotel. She turned to face him and the composure dropped.
