Mostly mine.
And the worst part?
I had to pretend I wasnota one-woman covert search party.
I couldn’t ask direct questions. I couldn’t describe what I was looking for.
I couldn’t even say the wordbroochwithout risking a full-scale Harrington meltdown reverberating through the estate like a tsunami.
So instead, I wandered. Smiled. Asked vague, cheerful things like “Everyone settling in okay?” and “No unusual activity this morning?” while praying no one askedmeanything specific.
It was like trying to solve a crime while hosting a wellness retreat.
No, I had to be… discreet. Calm. Professional. A woman who just happened to be casually asking everyone she met if they’d noticed any mysterious strangers near her bedroom at dawn.
Totally normal behaviour.
Except I wasn’t a detective.
I was a wedding planner.
My biggest mystery up until now had beenwho keeps moving the charger from my desk?
“Morning, Miss Sinclair,” said one of the housekeepers, pushing a trolley stacked with folded towels.
“Morning! Lovely day, isn’t it?” I replied, voice an octave too high. “Busy one ahead, I imagine.”
She smiled kindly. “Oh, every day’s busy around here.”
“Of course. And, um…” I tried to sound casual, which meant I definitely didn’t. “You haven’t seen anything… unusual this morning, have you?”
She blinked. “Unusual?”
“Yes, like, oh, I don’t know, someone wandering where they shouldn’t be? A guest behaving oddly?”
Her brow furrowed. “You mean, besides the bridal party?”
Right. Fair point.
I let out a nervous laugh. “No, no, you’re right. Forget I said anything.”
She gave me the same expression people give to nervous dogs before they slowly back away.
So much forsubtle.
I moved on, pretending to check my tablet, which currently displayed a to-do list I was too panicked to process.
My reflection flashed in the hallway mirror, neatly tied hair, crisp shirt, calm demeanour, all utterly misleading.
The kitchen was my next stop. If anyone had seen anything suspicious, it would be the catering staff. They noticed everything, mostly because nothing escaped Brian, the head chef, and his terrifyingly sharp knives.
When I stepped inside, the scent hit me first, butter, thyme, and the faint sweetness of pastry. The space buzzed withcontrolled chaos. Pots clanged, knives chopped, and someone was flambéing something that probably didn’t need flambéing.
“Morning, Miss Sinclair!” Brian called, waving a spatula. “You look tense. Want a croissant?”
“I’d love one, but I’m… working,” I said, scanning the room. “Just checking in. No issues this morning?”
“None,” he said proudly. “Deliveries on time, staff on point, everything’s running smoother than a bottle of my top-shelf olive oil.”
