He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Do you think it’s time tell someone? The police, maybe?”
“Not yet,” I said quickly. “Once they’re involved, it all gets very official, statements, insurance claims, the whole circus. And the press is already camped outside waiting to pounce. The last thing you need is reporters asking why the Langston’s’ can’t keep track of their guests’ jewels.”
The corner of his mouth twitched despite his concern. “You really have thought this through.”
“It’s literally my job to stop disasters before they reach social media.”
That earned a laugh. “So what’s your plan?”
“We keep it quiet,” I said. “Keep looking into it ourselves. If it doesn’t turn up on the day before the wedding … then we involve the authorities.”
He nodded slowly. “Discreet, and mildly terrifying. I approve.”
When he passed the photograph back, our hands brushed, the briefest, accidental contact, but enough to send a spark of awareness through me. The kind that lingers, uninvited.
Neither of us moved. The morning light caught the edge of the photograph between us, turning the paper gold. And suddenly, I couldn’t tell if the warmth rising in my chest was pride in a plan, or something else entirely.
Before either of us could speak, a voice carried in from the terrace, Margaret, brisk and commanding as ever. “Noah! We need you!”
He grimaced. “Summoned by the queen,” he said, but his tone didn’t quite match the words.
Our eyes met for a moment that stretched just a little too long.
Then, as quickly as it had appeared, he straightened, the professional mask sliding back into place.
“Duty calls,” he said gently.
I gave a small nod, pretending not to notice the hesitation in his step as he turned towards the door.
Chapter Sixteen
The noise hit me halfway up the staircase, raised voices, a muffled sob, and the distinct sound of a zipper meeting its breaking point.
Ah. Drama o’clock.
I rounded the corner into the bridal suite and stopped short. The room resembled ‘Chaos’ by Chanel. Blush-pink gowns from Amsale hung over chair backs, Jimmy Choos were scattered across the carpet like casualties, and a half-toppled box of macarons lay forgotten on the dresser. The faint scent of perfume lingered in the air, sweet and expensive and slightly suffocating.
The seamstress stood rigid, her tools gleaming with the kind of precision that suggested a terrifying hourly rate. She clutched a handful of pins like she might start throwing them.
Sophie, barefoot and flushed, glared at her reflection in the full-length mirror. Her cheeks were blotchy, her curls coming loose, the pale pink gown half-zipped and hanging awkwardly off one shoulder.
Emma stood nearby, arms folded, one foot tapping against the polished floor in irritation.
“For god’s sake, Sophie,” Emma said, exhaling sharply. “It’s Dior, not a straitjacket.”
“I said I’m fine,” Sophie shot back, voice trembling despite her words.
Before anyone could reply, Caroline swept in from the adjoining suite, phone pressed to her ear, her tone all clipped efficiency. “What on earth is happening?” she demanded, scanning the room. Her diamond bracelet caught the light as she gestured towards Sophie and the seamstress.
Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes as she clocked the state of Sophie.
“She keeps moving,” the seamstress said, frazzled. “I can’t pin the hem if she won’t stay still.”
“I’m not moving!” Sophie snapped, spinning towards her, which of course only made the dress twist more. “It’s just…” She stopped, her throat closing around the rest. “Never mind.”
Caroline ended her call and slipped her phone into her pocket, trying for calm. “We’re all a little on edge, that’s all. Big week.”
Emma gave an unhelpful little scoff. “Some of us more than others.”
