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One by one we polled our family members and friends. From Slash’s parents to my brothers, to Finn, Bonnie, and everyone in between—the consensus was unanimous. If we decided to proceed with the wedding this weekend, they would come, terrorists and gutless hooligans notwithstanding.

I looked at Slash, still not convinced we had to risk the lives of everyone we loved for the sake of a ceremony. But somehow, our wedding had become much more than that, much more than even us. It had become a symbol of defiance. Our family, our friends, and even the president and pope were not willing to back down.

Were we?

I suspected what side he fell on, but I also knew he wouldn’t go through with it if I didn’t want to. I loved him for that—for always thinking of me and my comfort zone.

But it also meant the decision had been left to me.

“If we decided to have the wedding as scheduled, we’d have to let our other guests know that they could back out,” I finally said. “They deserve to know they might be risking their lives by attending.”

“Fair enough,” Beau agreed. “It should be an individual decision.”

“So, does that mean you’re moving forward with the wedding?” Elvis asked. “I’m in, but I’m so tired right now, I kind of need it spelled out.”

I glanced at Slash and then the rest of the guests in the room. “If everyone here is willing to go forward, as well as the pope, president, and first lady, then I guess I’m in, too. There are certain unexpected hurdles we’ll have to manage, such as the fact that I no longer have a wedding dress. I’ll explain that part later, but everyone needs to check their dresses, suits, and tuxedos to make sure they survived the Bluff House carnage. Luckily, I have the best wedding planner in the US to help me sort things out. So, I guess the wedding is still on.”

A cheer went up in the room as friends and family gathered around Slash and me. I reminded myself that the odds of a successful and quiet wedding this weekend were statistically in my favor. Hands had been right—security at the wedding would be so tight and well organized, it was unfathomable that something else would or even could happen. Besides, it was only one day. The worst had passed, and any other potential mishaps would be the kind that traditionally happened at weddings—a guest who had imbibed a bit too much, a bit of family drama, or a lost ring.

Normal wedding hiccups from this point forward. At least, that was my most fervent desire.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

TWENTY-SIX

Lexi

It was midafternoon by the time the Secret Service interviews wrapped up. The questions were largely the same, just variations on what the police had asked. I was beyond done talking about the events of the previous night.

I think everyone felt the same. We just wanted to get back to the Lighthouse Hotel and figure out what we needed to do to proceed with the wedding. One thing was sure—Slash and I would have a busy evening of calling family and friends to see if they still wanted to attend the wedding after what had happened. Luckily, we’d planned what most people would consider a small wedding, but talking to more than a few people a day, whether on the phone or in person, was my limit.

It would not be a fun task for me. But it had to be done.

There were a multitude of other details, big and small, that needed to be reevaluated, such as the wedding reception—which was being held in the ballroom of the hotel, my wedding dress, the tuxedos, and the bridesmaid dresses, where everyone would be staying, and how to reach them. I was more thankful than ever I had Amanda in the driver’s seat. I found it hard to care too much when I was just grateful we were all alive and together.

Anything else could be replaced.

The Secret Service agents led us to seven black SUVs that had been lined up on the semicircular drive on the north side of the White House. The plan was to take us back to the Capital Hilton, where everyone, except Slash and I, had stayed after the police questioning last night. There, we could arrange transport back to the Lighthouse Hotel where we’d all be staying from now until the wedding. The Secret Service promised to deliver our vehicles and belongings from Bluff House later today. I gave the keys for my rental vehicle to an agent who actually smiled behind his ever-present sunglasses. I wondered briefly who would be responsible for the damages to Bluff House. It certainly wasn’t our fault, but I wasn’t sure if event insurance coverage dealt specifically with assassination attempts.

Guess I was about to find out.

This time, the Secret Service didn’t care in which cars we traveled, so Slash and I headed together to the first SUV where an agent standing by the driver’s door waved us over.

“This looks like a presidential motorcade,” I said to the agent when we reached the SUV.

“It does,” the driver said with an easy smile. “But domestically, motorcades rarely exceed five cars, plus a police escort. If the president were traveling, it would also include Cadillac One, or the Beast, as we call it. Normally we might have arranged a bus for you, but on short notice, and since this is a quick trip, SUVs were the easiest solution. Hop in and we’ll try and get you on your way uneventfully. It’s less than a mile to the Capital Hilton. I understand you’ve had a rough eighteen hours.”

“That’s an understatement,” I said. “And I thought the hard part would be getting married.”

The driver chuckled as Slash and I hopped into the back seat. After a minute, the catering manager of Bluff House, Diego, climbed into the front passenger’s seat. Turning around, I saw Mom, Dad, and Amanda climbing into a second SUV, while Hands, Grayson, Xavier, and Basia got into a third.

I noticed several black cases in our SUV, carefully arranged in the luggage area behind our seat. When I raised an eyebrow and glanced at Slash, he nodded reassuringly. I wasn’t crazy about the thought of driving in a car with so much firepower, but it was a short drive. Still, given recent events, it was almost too much to hope that my little black cloud had departed for a long overdue vacation. I didn’t have to be reminded that whoever was behind the last attack was still out there.

As we left the White House grounds the driver turned left onto 15thStreet, then right onto H Street. Police lights flashed ahead near New York Avenue.

“What’s going on up there?” Slash asked the driver.

“Construction,” the agent said. “It’s DC’s latest push to reduce the number of elephant-sized potholes. We’ll have to detour to 13thStreet and around Franklin Park to get to K Street. Been dealing with this for weeks.”