Chapter 64: Attending the Wedding
Early the next morning, just as the sky began to lighten, Ethan was gently shaken awake.
He opened his eyes to find Missy already in light makeup, fully dressed, and radiating energy—looking as though she hadn't been the one to "kidnap" him from the couch back to the bedroom last night.
"Up you get, Sleeping Beauty—unless you'd like to start the day fielding Sheldon's endless questions about why we're in the same room."
Missy crossed her arms, her tone playfully teasing.
Ethan snapped instantly awake—imagining Sheldon's interrogation, the kind of analytical grilling paired with an absolute inability to keep a secret (he'd announce it like breaking news), more effective than any alarm clock.
He practically vaulted out of bed: "Good point—let's move."
Standing before the mirror, Missy fastened an earring and asked, "What time does Sheldon wake up?"
While buttoning his cuffs Ethan answered, "No idea on weekends—I'm usually up late. But it's only 6:30; I'm sure he's still asleep."
They gave each other's formal outfits a final once-over.
—Ethan in a sharp navy suit, tie knotted to perfection, tall and straight, clean-cut handsome.
—Missy in a figure-hugging powder-blue dress, her natural curves elegantly outlined; simply standing there looked red-carpet ready.
Both liked what they saw; they locked eyes in wordless silence for a few seconds.
Missy's gaze turned liquid and deep, like ripples from a skipped stone, threatening to pull him in.
Ethan swallowed hard, his heartbeat suddenly loud in his ears.
Missy stepped closer, lips curving: "Should we…?"
With superhuman willpower Ethan cut her off: "No."
Like two inmates breaking out of prison, they tiptoed out of the bedroom.
They'd just turned into the hallway—
"Good morning," came Sheldon's voice from the living room.
Ethan and Missy froze as if caught in a spotlight, exchanged a three-second stare, then forced themselves into the living room.
Sheldon was already dressed, seated in his spot, eating breakfast.
Missy tried for casual: "Hey, Shelly, you're up early for a weekend?"
Sheldon looked up: "Since I moved in, every Saturday I wake at 6:15 sharp.
I prepare a bowl of Honey Puffs cereal, add exactly a quarter-cup of two-percent milk, sit on this side of the sofa, and watch Doctor Who on BBC America."
He finished, frowning: "But why are you both coming out of Ethan's room?"
Ethan kept a straight face: "We needed to double-check each other's outfits."
Sheldon pressed on: "You're leaving this early?"
"Yes—" Ethan began.
Missy instantly took over, rapid-firing words:
"Of course, Shelly. You know how crazy wedding schedules are, right?
Hair and makeup appointments, venue check-in, greeting guests, coordinating photos, emergency wardrobe fixes, color-matching the bridesmaids, organizing the flower girls—one minute late and—
the bride might have a meltdown, the photographer could walk out, the groom might panic; one thing goes wrong and the whole event collapses like dominoes—"
Sheldon's eyes widened; he raised a hand in surrender: "Stop! I understand."
He set his spoon down. "Then go, quickly. I don't want the entire wedding to implode because of me."
He added, "Right now I must focus on Doctor Who or my schedule will be disrupted."
Missy waved brightly: "Thanks, Shelly! We won't disturb your viewing."
Having failed to sneak out unnoticed but successfully talked their way past, Ethan and Missy slipped from the apartment.
Once inside the taxi rolling through New York at dawn, Ethan finally exhaled.
Compared to Ethan's clumsy deflections, Missy could hit Sheldon's psychological weak spots directly.
"That rapid-fire explanation of yours was brilliant,"
Ethan said, admiration plain in his voice. "Without you Sheldon would've analyzed every detail."
Eyes closed for a quick rest, Missy murmured, "Never argue logic with Sheldon. Overload his processing capacity with information he can't fact-check and he shuts down on his own."
Ethan laughed softly and squeezed the hand resting on her lap.
Without opening her eyes Missy interlaced her fingers with his and gave a gentle squeeze back.
The wedding was held at a historic luxury hotel on Manhattan's Upper East Side.
At the entrance stood an exquisite gold-trimmed welcome board in elegant calligraphy:
"Welcome to the Wedding of Sarah Whitmore & Mark James."
A massive crystal chandelier bathed the ballroom in golden light; the air carried the refined scent of white roses and champagne.
Well-dressed guests chatted quietly while uniformed servers threaded through with silver trays—everything announcing the event's lavish budget and the hosts' considerable wealth.
When Ethan and Missy stepped into the hall in formal attire, heads turned immediately—
Ethan's perfectly tailored suit made him look taller and even more distinguished.
Missy's body-hugging dress set off her confidence and beauty to stunning effect.
"Wow," Missy whispered, glancing around. "Looks like Sarah's making good on her high school promise—she absolutely had to marry rich."
Ethan observed, "But she's not as beautiful as you."
Missy lifted a brow: "That makes me both flattered and a little sad for her."
Before they could say more, bride Sarah—arm linked through groom Mark's—click-clacked over in designer heels.
Sarah wore a custom Vera Wang bridal gown, the diamond necklace at her throat sparkling under the chandeliers.
Radiating triumph, she gushed, "Missy! Darling, I'm so glad you made it!"
They hugged; Sarah then swept her gaze across the opulent décor: "Look at all this—Mark's father arranged everything."
She gazed adoringly at her husband. "After the wedding Mark will officially take over the family's Asian operations; his father finally trusts him with real responsibility."
Groom Mark—his expensive Tom Ford suit impeccable—stood with a slight backward lean, hair styled with product, a habitual half-smile hinting at playboy confidence.
From the moment he spotted Missy his eyes seemed glued to her, intense, unable to look away.
"Hi, Missy! You're even more stunning than Sarah described—those Texas sunsets must be as gorgeous as they say." Mark kept lightly shaking her hand, reluctant to let go.
Sarah's smile froze for a beat.
Ethan's expression darkened; shadows seemed to gather at his fingertips.
Missy calmly withdrew her hand, an impeccable smile on her face:
"Thanks for the compliment, Mark. But I have to remind you—today's most captivating sight is standing right next to you, and she doesn't look like she appreciates anyone eyeing her prize." She affectionately touched Sarah's arm.
Sarah tapped Mark's arm with playful reproach: "Darling, mind your manners."
Mark finally pulled his gaze back, slightly sheepish, though he still stole glances at Missy like a kid with a new toy.
Missy shifted, drawing Ethan forward: "By the way—meet my boyfriend, Ethan."
She spoke casually: "He runs his own medical practice—Rayne Clinic. It's not as glamorous as you big-shot executives, but he works hard and we do well."
Ethan offered a polite hand, shaking first with Sarah, then Mark.
Mark's smile froze for a heartbeat; he could only nod. "Ah… private practice, entrepreneur—impressive."
Sarah nodded to Ethan: "Pleasure to meet you."
Just as Missy finished the introduction, a subtle commotion rose near the ballroom entrance.
An entourage escorted a commanding elderly man inside.
Silver-haired and composed, he wore a charcoal bespoke suit tailored to perfection. Weary yet unmistakably authoritative, his presence commanded the room.
Sarah was still chatting with Ethan about medicine and running a clinic when the old man noticeably paused at the words "Rayne Clinic."
The elder approached, entourage in tow.
His gaze bypassed the small talk and fixed on Ethan, a flicker of recognition in his eyes.
The next moment he spoke:
"Mark, what are you doing standing here? Are these your friends? Introduce me."
Mark flinched. "Dad! I—they're Sarah's friends from Texas—"
The old man didn't wait; he clasped Ethan's hand, courteous yet eager.
"Forgive my interruption; I happened to overhear."
"Are you Dr. Ethan Rayne, of Rayne Clinic on Seventh Street in Brooklyn?"
Ethan, surprised, nodded and shook hands. "Yes, I'm Ethan Rayne. Pleased to meet you, Mr. James."
"Wonderful! I never imagined meeting you here!" Old Mr. James gripped Ethan's hand, visibly energized. "Only last night I learned about your clinic. There are… matters concerning my health I urgently wish to discuss with you in private—just a few minutes, if you're available now?"
His eyes carried urgent entreaty, as though this eclipsed his son, daughter-in-law, and even the wedding itself.
Ethan glanced at Missy; she lifted a brow in playful permission and lightly squeezed his arm. "Go ahead, Ethan. When Mr. James asks personally, it's an honor few receive."
She turned to Sarah, smiling. "Perfect—I'd love to catch up with Sarah."
"After all, Mark will soon be heading the Asia division; as the future executive's wife she'll be relocating. We might rarely see her afterward."
Sarah beamed, delight coloring her face.
Mark stood awkwardly, silent under his father's gaze.
Ethan accompanied Old Mr. James to a private study adjacent to the hall.
Thick carpet muffled their steps; the instant the door shut, outside laughter and chatter vanished.
Pleasantries fell away, leaving only fatigue and veiled anxiety. He gestured Ethan to sit; they faced each other across a mahogany desk.
"Dr. Rayne, to be blunt," he murmured, fingers drumming the wood, "my medical team believes I may… may have early-stage Alzheimer's."
"Symptoms are still mild, but I feel memories slipping away; sometimes a word is on my tongue…" He searched, "…and it's gone."
He fell silent; the room grew heavy.
Ethan's expression sobered. "I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. James."
Old James exhaled slowly. "Doctor, I've faced cancer, cardiac arrest, stroke—even a prostate cancer scare. I was never truly afraid."
He lifted his eyes, a trace of dread surfacing:
"But Alzheimer's is different. It doesn't want my life; it wants… my self."
"It will strip me piece by piece—judgment, memory, identity—until I can't recall who I am. That's worse than death."
Ethan was quiet, a thought crossing his mind:
So for these titans of industry, the ultimate terror isn't cancer or heart disease—it's Alzheimer's. They fear waking one day… not knowing who they are.
"I don't have long to delay. I must settle the company succession and my… ah—"
He sighed, fond exasperation in his tone.
"My disappointing heir. You saw Mark—spoiled, unfocused—but he's all I have."
"I rushed him into marriage and partial control to force maturity before I… lose myself."
His voice steadied, resigned yet lucid. "Doctor, only yesterday I heard of your clinic—and those 'miraculous recoveries.' I never imagined I'd meet you at my son's wedding."
"Perhaps it's divine providence, or sheer luck."
"But if a miracle is possible, I'll trade every shred of good fortune left in my life for it."
Ethan inclined his head. "Let's schedule a comprehensive evaluation at the clinic. I'll give you an honest assessment."
Old James released a long breath. "Thank you. Could we… make it next Monday? The sooner I know whether there's hope—and how much time I have—the better I can plan."
Ethan agreed.
Instantly the older man looked lighter; he stood, drew a black-and-gold hotel keycard from his inner pocket and offered it to Ethan. "The presidential suite in this hotel—a small advance thank-you."
Ethan hesitated. "That's too generous—"
"Not to me," Old James interjected gently but firmly. "For what you might be able to do, it's nothing."
He shook Ethan's hand again. "See you Monday, Dr. Rayne."
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