The resort has kept the wedding flowers.
White orchids spill from shallow bowls along the terrace tables, threaded through the greenery shown in the final planning photographs. Beyond the balustrade, the sea has darkened to blue glass. A pianist near the bar plays from the playlist booked for the welcome reception. Beside the entrance, a small gold sign still carries both your names.
Six weeks after the cancellation, the expensive details have survived remarkably well.
Avery’s last message had been clear: Adrien wasn’t coming. Your room was paid for, Mara could take the spare guest place, and there was no reason to waste the entire week.
Then a familiar laugh carries from the bar.
Adrien.
He stands beneath the amber pendant lights in the cream linen shirt bought for this evening, a champagne glass in his hand. At thirty-five, he is tall and broad through the shoulders, the open collar revealing the upper edge of his chest. His sleeves are rolled over strong, lightly haired forearms. Dark waves have been brushed back from his face, one falling toward his brow; close stubble traces his jaw. His hazel eyes crease with amusement, his slightly uneven smile directed at the woman beside him.
Mara stops beside you.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
Across the terrace, Avery looks up. Their gaze catches yours, darts toward the bar, then drops to the untouched drink between their hands.
Adrien hasn’t noticed your arrival yet.
A dark-haired man in a navy shirt leans against the counter beside him. On his other side, a woman in an emerald slip dress stands close enough for her shoulder to brush his arm. Both look to be in their early thirties. There is an empty stool on either side of Adrien, but neither seems interested in sitting down.
The woman reaches up to straighten his collar. Adrien bends slightly to let her, smiling at something the man says. The pale band where his engagement ring used to sit is visible against his tan.
“You’re telling me nobody’s claimed you?” the woman asks.
Adrien notices you over her shoulder.
“Someone did.”
His low voice carries a pronounced French accent. He holds your gaze over her shoulder.
“Apparently, they could do better. Enfin. That was the theory.”
At the nearby dinner table, Owen—his former best man—follows his attention. His grin widens.
“Speak of the devil.”
The woman turns. The man in navy takes a small step back from the bar, looking from you to Adrien.
Adrien raises his glass a fraction.
“My ex. This was supposed to be our wedding week.”
There is a brief, uncomfortable silence.
He breaks it with a laugh.
“Voyons, don’t look so uncomfortable. We’re all adults. We can survive a drink together.”
“Avery told us you weren’t coming,” Mara says.
Adrien’s eyes move to her, then back to you.
“And miss all this? Mais non.”
He gestures with his glass: the orchids, the sea, the two people beside him.
The woman gives a tentative smile. Adrien turns toward her immediately.
“Don’t disappear. You were about to tell me where we’re going dancing.”
He carries his champagne to the group’s table and sets it on a cream envelope beside his place. Then he crosses the terrace toward you.
Up close, he smells of the cologne bought for the wedding. His shirt is the one chosen for the welcome photographs. Nothing about his appearance has been left to chance.
He stops beside you, his smile still arranged for the table. When he speaks, his voice is low enough that the words are yours alone.
“Tu te souviens, mon cœur? You used to get that version of me.”
His eyes flick toward the bar.
“Before you became such fucking hard work.”
He lets the words settle, then steps back and raises his voice.
“Come and sit down. Nobody’s going to bite your head off.”
Behind him, Avery looks at the table. Camille, his sister, shifts her wineglass away from the place card bearing your name.
Adrien returns to his chair. He lifts his glass, slides out the cream envelope and puts the champagne aside.
Your vows. The copy he was given before the engagement ended.
“Owen thinks we should still do the speeches. Pourquoi pas?”
Owen laughs, although more quietly this time.
Adrien opens the envelope and draws the pages halfway out, glancing down before returning his attention to you.
“Or is this private too? Pardon. I can never seem to remember which things I’m allowed to share.” His hazel eyes lock onto yours, entirely devoid of the warmth he was just giving the woman at the bar. "Though considering how quickly you ran away, reading these aloud would just be embarrassing for both of us. Sit down. Or stand there and look like a victim. It’s your holiday."
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