Page 30

MILLIE

Lia is the first one to run at me—fast and uncoordinated, arms out like a cartoon character, all heart and no brakes.

For the first time, she beats her older cousins.

I barely have time to brace myself before she collides into me with a squeal, her little limbs wrapping tight around my neck.

Her giggles burst out warm against my skin as she buries her face there, like I'm her favorite hiding place.

I catch her easily, instinctively, one arm locked around her small frame as I press her close against my body.

God, I missed this baby like crazy.

"Lia, baby—be careful. Aunt Millie is still recovering," Aurora warns from across the room. Her hands are on her hips. She's trying to be stern, but the smile is already tugging at the corner of her mouth.

I roll my eyes and shush her without looking up. "Shut up, Aurora. Just let me be with my niece."

She throws her hands up like she's surrendering to the chaos, then grins at Camille beside her, giving her wife a look that's all fond amusement and bone-deep love. "She can be kind of rough sometimes," she says, then adds with a smirk, "We're on the biting phase."

I blink at Lia in my arms. "Is that true?" I whisper, tickling her side. She squeals louder, wriggling against me, her little arms tightening like she's never letting go. "That's not true, right? Mommy's just a liar."

She pulls back to look at me, her round face scrunching in serious concentration, like she's trying to figure out if admitting it will get her in trouble. "You goin' away?" she asks instead, voice small.

She's so beautiful it actually hurts. The perfect mixture of her moms—strawberry-blonde hair that curls softly at the ends, all wild and shiny and usually in some state of tangly chaos.

Her eyes are Bennett-blue, bright and wide and curious, the exact same shade as mine and Aurora's and Mom's.

She's tiny for her age, but Mom says Aurora was the same when she was little.

Small but mighty. Her cheeks are round with dimples that show when she smiles, and when she talks, it's always like the words are too big for her mouth and she's trying to carry them anyway. I love everything about her.

Aurora and Camille had Lia after three long rounds of IVF.

Camille got pregnant on the third try, and we were all holding our breath the entire pregnancy.

I remember the exact moment they told us—Camille standing in our kitchen, crying so hard she couldn't get the words out, and Aurora holding her from behind, looking like someone who finally, finally, finally had everything she'd ever wanted.

And now here Lia is, a whole tiny person, wild and loud and full of love.

A miracle with juice-stained lips and a penchant for biting.

"I'm going away for two days only, princess," I whisper, brushing her hair behind her ear.

She pouts hard, lower lip sticking out. Her blue eyes shine, glassy with unshed tears. She's not crying yet—but she's thinking about it.

"That's... eh..." She frowns and looks up, counting on her fingers like it'll help. "Two bedtime stories, right?"

I grin. "That's right! How are you so smart?"

She lights up instantly, pride glowing on her face. "Like my mommy."

From behind her, Camille snorts softly. "We're doomed."

I laugh, then crouch down slowly to set Lia back on the ground, even though she clings for a few extra seconds before reluctantly letting go. As soon as she does, her cousins move closer. They're not running. I can see it all over them—they're too sad to run.

Fizzy has her arms crossed and her mouth in a tight line, like she's trying really hard to be brave. Nico's chewing on his sleeve, which usually means he's about five seconds from feeling too many feelings. Willow follows close behind them, resting a calming hand on each of their shoulders.

"You can just FaceTime instead," Fizzy says finally, voice high with emotion she's trying not to show. "You don't even have to go. We'll hold the phone and you'll see everything. Easy."

"Yeah," Nico chimes in, stepping forward now. "You can watch it like a movie. From here. With us."

I crouch again, knees popping like ancient bones, and rest both my hands on their small backs. "I'll only be gone for the weekend, you guys," I say gently. "Two days. And Harper's already there helping with the wedding, and I—"

"You miss her," Nico says, smirking like a menace.

My brain short-circuits for a second. My mouth opens. I say nothing. From across the room, Aurora lets out a scandalized, gleeful laugh. "Oh my God."

"I am never saying anything around you again," I mutter, glaring at Nico, who shrugs like he's won a prize. Fizzy throws her head back and howls, way too delighted.

"You didn't say anything," he crows. "You made the face."

"What face?" I demand.

He makes a horrible expression—eyes wide, lips all puckered and mushy—and says in a syrupy voice, "I miss herrrrrr."

Lia giggles and grabs my hand. "I miss hers too,"

My breath catches. Just a little. Like something soft and unexpected presses against my heart. "Aw, we'll be back in two days and we'll all have a sleepover. I promise,"

"Yes, please," both my sisters say and I laugh.

They all get louder after that, piling questions on top of each other—do weddings have good cake, is Harper wearing a dress, can I bring back cake and will there be fireworks—and Lia keeps hold of my hand the entire time, even as she climbs onto the couch and tries to drag me with her.

Willow's trying to hand me a sandwich. Mom is calling from the kitchen about something I forgot to pack. It's all ridiculous and warm and alive.

Aurora comes over with juice boxes and a look of amused exhaustion and saves my life by gently prying Lia off me. "Say bye to Aunt Millie, okay, love bug?"

"I'll miss you three thousand," Lia whispers.

"I'll miss you three thousand more," I whisper back.

She gasps.

And just like that, I'm on my feet again, my arms a little emptier, my heart a little heavier. It's only a weekend. Two days. Forty-eight hours. I leave for away games in other countries sometimes, but it's not the place that I'm nervous about. No.

It's the fact that I'm heading toward something that feels too big to name. And no one in this loud, ridiculous house is going to let me pretend otherwise.

"Okay, wait—before you go," Summer says, sliding dramatically in front of the door like a bodyguard from a spy movie.

She crosses her arms and narrows her eyes, that same look she gave me when I was fourteen and caught red-handed with her lip gloss and a boy's number in my hoodie pocket.

"Can we please address the elephant in the room? "

"Oh no," I mutter, adjusting the strap of my overnight bag.

"Oh yes," Aurora grins, stepping up beside her like backup dancer number two. "We've been waiting all morning for this."

I try to pivot left—maybe I can still escape with some dignity—but Summer slides smoothly in front of me again, raising one perfectly sculpted brow like a challenge.

"So," she says, drawing it out like she's narrating a murder mystery, "just to recap... you're going to a wedding."

"In Toronto," Aurora adds, smiling too brightly.

"With your fake girlfriend," Summer continues, eyes glinting.

"Who left yesterday," Aurora says, "because she's in the wedding party and probably already there being adorable and competent and helpful and dressed in something devastating."

"And," Summer leans in like she's delivering the twist in a soap opera, "you two are sharing a room."

Aurora mock–gasps. "No. Wait. One bed?"

Summer presses a hand to her heart, eyes wide with fake awe. "Right? My favorite trope."

I groan so loud my voice cracks. "Jesus Christ."

They erupt. Summer actually doubles over with laughter, wheezing as she clutches the doorframe, while Aurora starts clapping like I just scored the winning goal in overtime.

Camille peeks in from the kitchen and shakes her head like she's seen this circus act before.

Lia and the kids look up from where they're trying to fit another stuffed animal into my duffel bag, clearly wondering what the drama's about.

"It's not like that!" I say, trying—and failing—to sound convincing. "We've shared a bed before! We're adults! It's just for show!"

"Ohhh sure," Summer coughs between cackles. "Just for show. Like when Mom found you two asleep in your room? Are there cameras in your room?"

"I hate you both so much," I say, half-laughing, half-praying for a meteor to strike.

"Aw," Aurora coos. "Poor little Millie. Just a girl, standing in front of her family, trying to lie about her feelings."

"I don't have feelings!"

"Oh sweetie," Summer says, stepping closer and cupping my face with both hands like I'm fragile and stupid. "You're so in love, it's disgusting."

"Jesus— This has nothing to do with love."

"You're blushing," Summer says, eyes narrowing.

"I'm leaving," I declare, but they don't budge. And under all the noise, all the teasing, there's something softer in their faces now. Something protective. Something real.

"Millie," Aurora says, her voice dipping lower, serious now. "Jokes aside... don't hide what you feel, okay?"

"You don't have to be brave all the time," Summer adds. "Or guarded. Or perfect. You get to want things. Even if it's scary. Especially if it's scary."

My throat goes tight, the way it always does when they get like this—when they stop being the chaotic forces of nature I grew up with and suddenly turn into the big sisters who know me better than anyone.

"You like her," Aurora says simply, gently. "We know. And I think she really likes you back. So don't waste the whole weekend pretending it's not real just because it started as a lie."

I look at both of them, and for once, they're not grinning. They're just... there. Present. Steady. Loving me in that annoying, overwhelming way they always have.

"Okay," I say quietly. "I'll try."

Summer presses a kiss to my cheek. Aurora wraps me in a one-armed hug. The kind that's tight around the shoulder but still leaves space, like she knows I might need to breathe.

From the living room, Fizzy's yelling something about needing to add a flashlight to my bag "in case of basement emergencies," and Lia's hugging my thigh like she'll melt into the floor if I leave. Nico offers me a Tic Tac like it's a peace offering for surviving the sister chaos.

My moms emerge from the kitchen with a sandwich, a bag of licorice, and a thermos of tea. Camille passes me a charger and a stern look. Willow tosses me her lucky scrunchie like I'm heading into battle.

"I'll miss you a whole star," Lia says seriously, like she invented the phrase herself. "Not just one night. A star."

I kiss the center of her forehead. "I'll bring you back a moon."

Then I take a breath, step out the door, and head into a weekend that suddenly feels a lot more like a beginning than an escape.

────────── ???? ──────────

Harper left for her friends' wedding last night.

She had the rehearsal dinner last night, and a party after that.

Both things I wasn't invited to. And even though she made it clear she didn't want to go—that she hated formal things, hated having to smile around people who once abandoned her like she was replaceable—I saw the way she still went.

Because she can't help it. Because she has this unbearable, impossible ache to be liked by people who never deserved her in the first place.

It kills me. It genuinely does.

Because Harper is the most lovable person in the world. She carries softness like armor and smiles like it costs her something.

I hate that she still gives so much of herself to people who threw her away. People who chose someone else. Who made her feel like her personality was a flaw instead of the best damn thing about her.

I'd be lying if I said the thought of her being back in Toronto with her ex wasn't eating me alive.

It is.

It's rotting me from the inside out.

The drive from the airport to this hotel took two hours, and the whole time I felt like I was being peeled open.

Like every mile brought me closer to something I didn't want to see but couldn't look away from.

My hands were locked on the steering wheel even though they were trembling, and my stomach was a knot pulled tight around the question I haven't been brave enough to ask: What if she wants him back?

Now I'm sitting in my parked car, engine off, still in the front seat with the seatbelt digging into my shoulder, while wedding guests rush past me.

Men in navy suits, women in chiffon pastels, their laughter echoing as they hurry inside, afraid to be late.

The sky's bright but the light feels harsh, and I can't move.

I can't force myself out of this car because I am absolutely not ready to watch Harper walk down the aisle with him.

Even if it's not that kind of wedding. Even if she's not the bride.

She's walking. He's standing. And I'm going to have to watch her look beautiful while standing across from someone who hurt her.

The urge to put the car in reverse is a living thing in my chest, hot and frantic.

I could drive away. I could send her a text saying something came up.

She'd understand. Or at least pretend to.

But I can't do it. I made a promise—to her, to myself.

I said I'd be her date, and that's what I intend to be.

Because even more than I want to run, I don't want her to stand there with no one on her side.

Not in a room full of people who let her down.

I may not know them, but I've heard enough to know this: they're toxic, and Harper deserves better.

She deserves people who show up for her even when it's uncomfortable. Especially then.

So I keep my head down and move through the hotel lobby, slipping past flower arrangements and signs pointing to various event rooms. The air smells like expensive perfume and anxiety. My suit feels too tight, too stiff. It doesn't fit right because I don't fit here.

The banquet hall is already full when I arrive.

I hesitate in the doorway for a second too long, and that's enough.

People notice me immediately. The clink of glasses dulls, and the buzz of low conversation slows to a hush.

I feel eyes turn like the collective tilt of a flock of birds.

I try to walk like I belong, but it's impossible not to feel the heat of their curiosity trailing after me. I'm not from here. I'm not theirs.

I slip into the second-to-last row, trying to be invisible.

I sit down slowly, smoothing the hem of my jacket, my knee bouncing with restless energy.

My hands are shaking so I grab the wedding program, pretending to read it.

The words don't register. I can't focus on anything but the sensation of being watched, measured, judged.

Why is she here? Is that Amelia Bennett? Wasn't she at the hospital?

I hate the way it makes me feel—small. And I hate that Harper's probably felt this way around these people her entire life.

The music shifts.

Everyone goes quiet, like someone flipped a switch.

The groomsmen start entering from the side doors, and it only takes me a second to find him. Blond-haired, overconfident, too-tan-for-February asshole. Isaiah.

The one who cheated. The one who made her question every part of herself. The one who called her too intense, too emotional, too ambitious. The one who begged for her back after he realized she wasn't replaceable, even though he'd already proven he didn't deserve her.

He's smiling. That smug, easy smile that makes me want to plant my fist in his teeth.

I don't know if he's smiling because he sees me, or because he doesn't, but either way, it pisses me off.

He shouldn't get to be comfortable today.

Not when Harper's here, quietly unraveling in all her polite grace, and he's never once deserved the love she still offers people who hurt her.

A different set of doors opens. And there she is.

Hair swept up with delicate pins, a few soft strands curling around her cheekbones like the universe couldn't help giving her something cinematic.

Her dress is emerald green, floor-length, fitted at the waist, and it makes her look like the earth designed itself around her.

Her hands are wrapped around a small bouquet, but her fingers tremble slightly, and only I would know that.

Only I would see that tiny giveaway of nerves beneath the elegance.

She walks down the aisle with her head high, her shoulders back, like someone taught her to walk through fire and make it look like dance.

And still, despite everything, she's smiling.

That sweet, practiced Harper smile—the one she gives when she's trying to make other people comfortable, even if her insides are full of storm.

It's radiant. It's practiced. It's devastating.

I can't stop looking at her. I don't even try to. She passes right by my row, and I think my pulse stops. Just a second, just a beat. She doesn't see me yet.

I slide a hand under my thigh, grounding myself. If I don't, I might do something reckless, like stand up and walk to her. Like ruin the ceremony just by needing her too much.

When she reaches the altar, she takes her place to the far left, joining the other women in matching green dresses. I can barely see the others. To me, they blur into wallpaper. But Harper—she's light and color and gravity all at once.

And then there's him. Isaiah. Standing on the opposite side. His eyes don't leave her. Not even for a second.

I notice the way he shifts his stance slightly, the way his jaw tenses, like seeing her hurts—but not enough to stop looking.

I feel the burn of it rise in my throat.

I want to break him in half. Because he knows.

He knows he lost something rare, and I know he'd take it back in a second if she let him.

If she wavered. If she even blinked too long in his direction.

He still thinks he's entitled to her because he had her once.

Because he didn't think someone better would come along.

But I came along. And he has no idea what to do with that.

Harper's eyes flicker to him for a brief second.

It's so fast I might have missed it if I weren't watching her like the whole room might collapse.

I can't read her expression. It's blank, unreadable, and it scares me a little, that I don't know what she's thinking.

That I don't know what he still means to her.

My chest tightens, and for a second, I feel like I might actually stand up and leave. Like maybe I was wrong to come. Maybe being here just makes everything harder for both of us.

She starts to scan the crowd. Her gaze flits over the rows of guests like she's not even conscious she's doing it. Like maybe some part of her is searching without knowing what she's looking for. I hold my breath. I stay still. I try not to hope.

The moment her gaze locks on mine, something shifts in her entire face. The tension in her shoulders loosens. Her chin dips ever so slightly, like she's breathing again for the first time in minutes. And that polite, strained little smile she was wearing—the one she wore like a mask—melts.

In its place comes something warmer. Brighter. Real. A full-on, radiant, Harper smile.

The kind that starts in her mouth and ends in her eyes.

The kind I've only seen when she's cooking barefoot at midnight or pressed up against me on the couch in one of my sweatshirts.

The kind she gave me when I made her laugh until she cried over something dumb and small.

It's not the smile of someone who wants someone else.

It's the smile of someone who sees someone she's been waiting for. My heart clenches like it's too big for my chest.

And right there, in the middle of a wedding I don't belong at, surrounded by people who never deserved her—I feel it again.

That pull. That ache. That unbearable truth that I'm falling for someone I was never supposed to have.

Someone who was supposed to be a lie. A fake story for the press.

A name on a headline. A game we played for my reputation.

She keeps her eyes on me like she's afraid I might vanish. Like she's steadying herself on the sight of me, tethering to something solid in the middle of all this noise and polite chaos. There's a slight flush rising on her cheeks, delicate and unmissable, like a secret blooming under the skin.

She doesn't say a word, but her lips move gently around the shape of it—hi—and it's so soft, so naked in its vulnerability, that my chest pulls tight.

I mouth it right back, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. "You're beautiful."

It isn't enough, but it's all I can offer her in this moment, with two dozen eyes around us and none of them seeing what I see.

I wish I could walk up there and pull her into my arms, tell her she doesn't have to pretend for anyone—not me, not them, not anymore.

I wish I could tell her that no version of her has ever looked more beautiful than she does right now, trembling slightly and still trying so hard to make this day work for people who never deserved her in the first place.

She blinks and looks away, focusing on the bride who's slowly making her way down the aisle, and I follow her gaze, if only to steady myself. But it's a mistake. Because when my eyes drift across the room again, they meet someone else's.

Isaiah. His glare is sharp enough to cut across the rows of chairs and pin me to my seat.

It's not subtle—nothing about him ever is.

He's practically seething in his fancy suit, lips tight, jaw flexed, and God, if it doesn't send a thrill straight down my spine.

Because I know exactly what he sees when he looks at me.

He sees someone who got there first this time. Someone who didn't hesitate, who showed up, who stayed. I offer him a slow, deliberate wink, just for the hell of it, and then turn back to Harper like he's already forgotten.

The rest of the ceremony happens in fragments—blurred pieces of vows, laughter echoing off chandeliers, hands clapping too loudly.

I can't seem to focus on any of it. My whole body is humming with tension, with something hot and electric under my skin.

Every time I glance at her, I catch some tiny shift in her expression, some almost imperceptible crack in the polished mask she's wearing for everyone else's comfort.

And then I see it. The part where her friends reveal exactly who they are.

As the officiant pronounces the couple married and the crowd erupts into loud, celebratory noise, I realize—too late—that Harper is being paired to walk back down the aisle with him.

Of course she is.

Her arm loops through his automatically, out of practiced politeness, but my stomach churns.

It's so fucking transparent. This wasn't random.

Her friends knew exactly what they were doing when they put them side by side like that.

When they decided to make Harper the prize he gets to walk away with.

They want a reunion. They want the fairytale that makes them feel better about all the wrong choices they made when everything fell apart between them the first time.

It makes me want to burn this whole room down.

Isaiah leans in, smug and too close, and says something low in her ear.

Her face doesn't move. No reaction. Not even a flicker of amusement.

She just keeps walking, her expression unchanged—lips tilted in that socially acceptable smile she's perfected, the one she uses when she's surrounded by people who don't see her.

The one she wears when she has to be digestible, non-threatening. Small.

And yet—I know better. I've seen her face at midnight when she thinks no one's watching. I've seen her laugh from her gut, cry with her fists clenched in my hoodie, rage and hope and come undone in the quiet of my apartment. I've seen her real.

That girl on his arm right now isn't the real one.

She's a version crafted for the comfort of everyone else in this room.

But beneath it—beneath the soft makeup and the elegant smile and the passive body language—is Harper.

The one who fought her way back after they broke her.

The one who chose herself. The one who lets herself fall asleep next to me with her hand still clutching mine like it's instinct.

She turns her head just slightly before she exits the room with the others, one final glance over her shoulder.

And her eyes find mine. Not by accident. They hold, just for a second. Maybe less. But in that second, everything she can't say out loud lives between us. Something exhausted. Something tender. Something like, thank you for being here.

And I sit back in my chair, my hands clenched so tightly my knuckles ache, my jaw sore from grinding my teeth—and I wait.

Because this wedding might belong to her friends.

But Harper? She's mine.