"Where is the groom?" the priest barked into the microphone. "He's delayed," a woman beside the aisle whispered, loud enough for three rows to hear. "Delayed how? He had a private jet scheduled," someone else said. Fernanda kept her hands in her lap and smiled like she had practiced for an audience. The satin was tight around her ribs. Her fingers pressed the silver bracelets hidden under the sleeve. "Do we still do this?" the best man muttered, staring at the empty center aisle. "Do it," a voice from the back ordered. "We paid for a wedding, not a scandal." "Repeat after me," the priest said. "I, Fernanda Hayes—" "No," a guest cut in. "That's not her." "She's the stand-in," the hotel coordinator snapped. "The family doesn't want headlines." "Stand-in," someone scoffed. "You mean a free show." Fernanda mouthed the words the priest fed her. Vows turned into lines on cue. Cameras on phones lifted like hands at a concert. A livestream was already running; the royalty of Harbor City's gossip feeds had arrived. "Say 'I do,'" the priest prompted. "I do," Fernanda said. A laugh from the left. "She sounds like she reads contracts for a living." "Hey, do you two have a prenup?" a drunk man shouted. "Shh," someone hissed. "You're ruining it." The groom's absence became a game. Glass clinked. Phones clicked. Guests traded bets about who would cancel the party and who would get the open bar