Page 130 of Lying Is My Love Language

Lipstick?Mostly smudged – but also check.

Emotional stability?Not even remotely close.

Let’s rewind.

It all started when, as soon as I ended my call with Ella, I stumbled on #CalFoundHisRosie on Instagram, which, yes, made me want to claw my eyes out, but also turned out to be useful.Cal – Luke’s old uni mate – posted a photo of the wedding arch with a location tag.

Rosie’s sister followed up with a blurry but unmistakable video of the hotel signage in her Stories.I mean … you really can’t hide from a woman with wi-fi.

Fifteen minutes and three Instagram deep dives later, I had a flight booked, a room reserved, and a semi-functional plan.

Step one: Get to Darwin.

Step two: Don’t pass out from nerves.

Step three: Find Luke, pull him aside, tell him I love him.

Step four: Find emotional clarity?Possibly humiliation?Maybe build a pyramid scheme?TBC.

Of course crashing someone’s wedding is insane.But I’m not here to ruin anything.I’m not here to scream ‘I object!’in the middle of their vows or fight the bride on the dance floor.I’m here to tell the truth to the man I love.For once.

Maybe I’ll find the car park where the real rom-com moments happen – after the speeches, when everyone’s barefoot and buzzed and the air smells of house wine and new beginnings.

I climb into a taxi and give the driver the address of the hotel I memorised yesterday while eating cereal straight from the box.The ride is short.The consequences of this decision will not be.

The hotel is aggressively nice.Glass everything.Air-conditioning so cold I could cry.It’s the kind of place where people wear linen not because it’s breathable, but because it matches the aesthetic.

I walk up to the front desk and am greeted by a receptionist who probably moonlights as a lifestyle influencer.

‘Hi there!Are you here for the Williams wedding?’

Her voice is so chirpy I consider faking laryngitis.Instead, I channel indifference.‘Nope,’ I say.‘But curious – what time is the wedding happening?’Smooth.

She doesn’t even blink.‘Ceremony starts in an hour by the garden.Reception starts at seven in the function room.’

She checks me in with a terrifying amount of warmth, hands me a key card and tells me I’ve been upgraded to a room with a partial ocean view, which is exactly what I deserve – half the beauty, half the peace.

As I head to the elevator, I pass a woman in a blush-pink dress who’s laughing into her champagne flute.A guy in a navy suit adjusts his cufflinks and flashes her a smile.People are checking their make-up in mirrored walls and fixing boutonnieres.They all belong here.Meanwhile, I am made of static.

By the time I reach my room, my palms are slick and my brain is glitching.I drop my bag on the floor and freeze in front of the full-length mirror.

Hair – slightly frizzed from the flight but salvageable.

Dress – wrinkled.

Emotional state – dubious.

I strip.Shower.Scrub off the travel grime and the rising panic.When I step out, I stare at myself in the fogged mirror.

‘You’re doing this,’ I whisper.‘You came all this way.Just … say what you came to say.’

I slip into a different dress.A soft green one that I never wear because it feels too much, too noticeable.Maybe tonight, that’s the point.

Hair up.Lips tinted.Mascara – applied with the shaky precision of someone trying not to cry.

Then I rehearse.

‘I love you,’ I say, straight to my reflection.‘I’m a mess.But I’m working on it.And I don’t know if it’s too late, but you’re not forgettable.Not even close.’