The wedding venue hummed with the sterile, high-end chill of industrial air conditioning. It was a sharp, biting contrast to the suffocatingly sweet scent of white roses and melting beeswax. It was nearly three in the morning. The frantic, nervous energy of the setup had bled out of the room hours ago. All that remained were the muffled, echoing footsteps of the final cleaning crews and the wedding coordinator, who was aggressively tapping away on her tablet near the foyer.
Galathea Brooks walked through the grand entrance. Alone.
Everything was beautiful. A structural masterpiece of glass, wrought iron, and polished marble that seemed to swallow the sound of her heels entirely. The space felt less like a celebration and more like a carefully curated museum exhibit.
It was waiting.
