Now it's just unpleasant, like passing a stranger wearing too much cologne.
We start walking. Slow, measured steps down the center aisle, matching the pace the coordinator is counting out. One, two. One, two.
Grant leans in.
"So," he says, voice low enough that only I can hear. "I heard your car broke down and you still showed up. Well done, Beth."
I keep walking. One, two. One, two.
"You know, I always admired how passionate you are. The big ideas, the vision." His tone is light. Warm, even. "I just think some people are wired for the creative side and other people are wired for, you know, execution. Making things actually run. There's no shame in that."
One, two.
"I used to love handling all that stuff for us. The schedules, the logistics, making sure everything landed on time." He adjusts his cuff, casual as anything. "So where are your alphas tonight? Running a little behind?"
I stop walking.
Grant stops too, half a step ahead, and turns to look at me with his eyebrows slightly raised. Patient. Expectant. Maybe waiting for me to look flustered.
Instead, Ireallylook at him. And what I see is a man who inserted himself into a walk-through he had no part in, positioned himself next to his ex-fiancée, and is now spending the entire walk down the aisle feeding her backhanded insults.
"I'm sure they're doing their best. It must be hard when you—"
I slap him, my palm connecting with the side of his face with a sharp, cleancrackthat echoes off the exposed beams of the Arbor House ceiling.
The room goes silent.
Grant's head turns with the impact. His hand comes up to his cheek. His mouth opens.
And here is the thing:
I'm not angry, I'm just done.
The way you walk out of a situation you've been staying in for way too long, wondering why you ever put up with it.
Grant stares at me, his cheek red. His perfect composure has cracked right down the middle.
"Don't talk about my pack," I say, my voice level. "And while you're at it, don't talk to me either."
He opens his mouth. Closes it.
The room is still completely silent. I can feel every pair of eyes in the venue on me: my girls, the coordinator, Ben frozen mid-text, the stand-ins standing very still.
Grant looks around the room, dropping his hand from his cheek.
"You're insane," he says. But it comes out thin. Reedy.
"Maybe." I smooth the front of my blouse. "But you got the message, didn't you?"
Grant stares at me for one more second. Then he turns on his heel and walks out of the Arbor House without looking back, the door swinging shut behind him with a muted thud.
Nobody moves.
Then Dev says, very quietly, "Holy shit."
And that breaks it. Harper lets out a laugh that's half sob, half war cry, and she crosses the room and wraps her arms around me so tight I can't breathe. She's shaking, and I realize I'm laughing too, and behind us Maren is clapping while Luna has both hands pressed over her mouth, eyes wide and shining.
"So... should we take it from the top?" the coordinator asks, standing at the altar holding her binder and looking like she has seen the face of God.
