I give the smallest nod.
She doesn’t panic. Just straightens her shoulders and turns back to the conversation.
The speeches begin after the main course.
Chris’s best man goes first—a rambling affair with too many inside jokes and a story about a camping trip that seems to have no point. The table laughs politely.
Violet’s maid of honor delivers a toast that’s actually touching. Something about finding your person in unexpected places. About love that challenges you to be better.
I feel Poppy’s gaze on me. All I want to do is gaze back, but I can’t look at her. Not right now.
Catherine stands next.
“As mother of the bride,” she begins, champagne glass raised, “I have the privilege of embarrassing my daughter in front of everyone she loves.”
Polite laughter. Violet looks pained.
“Violet has always been the practical one. The focused one. The one who knew what she wanted and went after it.” Catherine’s gaze flicks to Poppy. “Some people drift through life, unsure of their path. Violet has never been one of those people.”
Beside me, Poppy’s heartbeat accelerates. A small increase—imperceptible to anyone without enhanced senses—but I hear it.
Catherine continues, oblivious or indifferent. She talks about Violet’s achievements, her career, her perfect choice in partner. Every compliment contains an implicit comparison, a reminder of everything Poppy isn’t.
I want to stand. Want to interrupt. Want to tell Catherine Gable what I think.
But this isn’t my battle. Not yet.
Catherine finishes with a toast to the happy couple. Everyone drinks. Poppy’s smile is fixed, perfect, and false.
Then Preston stands.
Every muscle in my body goes rigid.
“I know I’m not part of the wedding party,” he says, that practiced humble-brag tone that makes me tighten my fists. “ButChris is a colleague and a friend, and I wanted to say a few words.”
He clears his throat. Adjusts his cuffs.
“Chris and I have worked together for three years. I’ve watched him grow as an analyst, as a leader, and now as a partner.” Preston’s gaze drifts to Violet. Then to Poppy. “What I admire most about Chris is his ability to see people clearly. To look past the surface and understand who someone really is.”
Poppy’s pulse spikes.
“That’s rare,” Preston continues. “Most of us spend our lives performing. Showing the world what we think they want to see instead of who we really are.” Another glance at Poppy. “But real love—real connection—requires seeing through the performance. Finding the truth underneath.”
This isn’t a toast. It’s a message.
“Serenity taught me that,” Preston says, reaching for his fiancée’s hand. “She taught me to look beyond the image. To find what’s real.”
Poppy’s breathing changes. Shorter. Tighter. Old wounds being reopened in public.
“So here’s to Chris and Violet,” Preston raises his glass, “for finding something real in a world full of performances.”
People drink. People applaud. Preston sits down with a satisfied expression.
And I stand up.
The table goes quiet. I feel eyes on me—curious, surprised, wary. I haven’t spoken much tonight. Haven’t drawn attention to myself. The mysterious boyfriend staying in the background.
Not anymore.
