"Clementine, come back—finish the wedding," Calder says, voice calm as rain drums on her veil.
"Calder," she answers, fingers locked on the phone. "I already walked out."
"Then walk back," he says. "Now."
"Why?" Her voice cracks. "Why would I—"
"Because you are the bride," he says. "Because the cameras will swarm and you will make the family look bad if you don't. Because this is bigger than you."
"Are you serious?" She looks past him at the glass doors of Harbor City Airport. A dozen umbrellas bob like black punctuation. A lit screen flashes his name. "You mean your 'bigger than me' the way you mean everything else?"
"Don't make this about me," he says. "Go back."
She hangs up. The ringtone clicks in the wind like a verdict.
"You're not answering," she says, louder. "You told me once you'd tell the truth."
"I told you what mattered," he says. "This matters."
"You're asking me to be a prop."
"Call it what you want," he says. "But the family needs you to go back."
"You—" She swallows. "You're ordering me. From across the street."
"From where I'm standing."
Cameras flash. A reporter's shout tries to wedge itself between them.
"Ms. Bradley," someone calls, "any comment on leaving your fiancé at the altar?"
Clementine turns. The word fiancé feels like a rusted coin she never agreed to accept.
"Not today," she says.
Calder steps close enough that she can see the
