Nothing dramatic.
Just… wrong.
The kind of wrong you only pick up on when you’ve spent the afternoon walking the estate cataloguing every detail, trying to figure out where a missing antique brooch could be hiding.
“Did she think it was a guest?” I asked lightly, keeping my voice neutral.
“She didn’t say. Just that it wasn’t like that this afternoon.”
I nodded, thanked her, and sent her back out with a smile.
But inside, an alarm bell rang.
Someone had been going through the Langston family’s antiques.
I stepped back onto the terrace, letting the noise and lights wash over me as I scanned the crowd.
The travel influencer couple were closest. They’d positioned themselves near a vine-wrapped pillar, taking turns photographing each other sipping wine like they were auditioning for an ad campaign.
The woman kept adjusting her hair and murmuring, “No, take it again, my face is too ‘I’m trying’.”
Her partner replied seriously, “Babe, tryingisthe vibe.”
A few feet away, Caroline stood smiling politely with James at her side, their poise almost comical next to the influencer theatrics. Caroline’s dress, some kind of cream satin situation that moved like liquid money, caught the light every time she moved. James was handsome in a suit that absolutely wasn’t natural at all; it was the kind of tailoring that whispered,there were fittings.
Together, they were exactly the couple that the tabloids loved, polished, poised, and wearing outfits that probably cost more than the lighting installation.
Caroline’s mother, Margaret, hovered just behind them, straightening Caroline’s posture every time the drone swooped nearby, as though the machine were a Vogue photographer rather than a floating piece of hardware.
A YouTube famous Yoga instructor had folded herself into a nearby chair as if she was about to lead a meditation session, except she was scrolling vigorously on her phone and muttering about someone stealing her hashtag. Emma, standing beside her with her champagne flute held like a protective shield, nodded along with the same expression she wore during complex contract negotiations, polite, composed, and deeply unimpressed.
Her little black dress had been engineered for efficiency and intimidation, and the slight arch of her eyebrow suggested she’d rather be cross-examining someone than listening to a rant about followers.
A TV actor from some long-running medical drama was charming an entire table, loudly insisting that “real doctors constantly stop him in the street to ask for advice.” The group nodded politely, though I wasn’t convinced any of them believed him. Elaine listened kindly for far longer than anyone else could manage, her patient expression slowly melting into something that looked suspiciously like concern for the man’s state of mind.
Nearby, Ethan hovered with a half-finished drink and the unmistakable expression of a man desperately searching for a socially acceptable exit strategy.
Two guests danced awkwardly near the band’s set, swaying completely offbeat. One elbowed the other. “This will look great on my Stories.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell them the drone had captured their entire off-beat swaying in high definition.
Near them, Sophie stood barefoot on the grass, deep in conversation with a cluster of younger guests. She appeared carefree, drifting in an artistic, floaty dress, laughing easily at something one of them had said.
Farther down, the soap opera star, an older woman with immaculate hair and a dress that likely required a small army to zip, had gathered a crowd around her like she was holding court.
She brandished her wine glass as she told a story involving three co-stars, a runaway goat, and what she called “creative differences.” I wasn’t sure how the goat fit in, but her audience was enthralled.
Richard Harrington, Caroline’s father, stood behind them nodding along and captivated, despite clearly having no idea who she was.
Cleo hovered around me like a brightly coloured satellite, notebook in hand, eyes wide. She kept whispering things like, “Is that who I think it is?” and “Do you need me to remove the DJ? I can remove him.”
She’d absolutely try.
I sighed.
Celebrities, influencers, tech titans, TV stars, and the entire wedding party… all swirling together in one gloriously chaotic montage.
As the drone dipped low over the tables again, capturing a quick sweep of glamorous faces and festive light, something occurred to me.
