Chapter 5 - The Rehearsal Dinner
The parking lot of the Wilmington country club was lit by rows of antique gas lanterns that cast long, amber shadows across the manicured boxwood hedges. Inside, a string quartet was murdering a Vivaldi concerto while forty members of Hockessin high society drank signature gin cocktails and pretended they weren't judging each other's outfits.
It was Britney and Greg’s rehearsal dinner.
I sat in the driver’s seat of my unmarked OSI sedan three rows back, the tiny receiver tucked inside my left ear whispering the steady, rhythmic static of Keller’s surveillance team monitoring the perimeter from two vans down.
My phone buzzed against my leg. A text from Mom: Where are you? Britney has been crying in the powder room for an hour. Greg is holding the whole room together, but everyone knows you caused this. Please just show up and apologize.
I looked in the rearview mirror. My flight suit was gone, replaced by a dark sheath dress I’d worn to a cousin’s funeral three years ago. My hair was pinned back, severe and clean.
I checked the micro-recorder clipped inside the lining of my collar, took a deep breath, and pushed the car door open.
The cool autumn air smelled of damp grass and expensive perfume. As I walked up the stone steps toward the grand glass double doors, the string quartet faded behind the heavy oak framing.
Greg was standing near the bar in a custom charcoal tuxedo, laughing softly with a local bank executive. He looked relaxed, radiant, and entirely untouchable. He held a crystal tumbler of bourbon in one hand, gesturing with the other as he told some smooth joke about wedding jitters.
When the glass doors clicked open behind him, the room didn't go silent immediately. People were too busy drinking. But Greg turned.
His eyes found mine across twenty feet of imported hardwood flooring.
For a fraction of a second—just a heartbeat—the immaculate, confident mask slipped. His fingers tightened around the crystal glass until his knuckles went white.
Then the smooth, charming smile slid right back into place.
He set his drink down on a passing waiter’s tray, smoothed his lapels, and started walking straight toward me through the crowd, his expression a masterpiece of warm, concerned family loyalty.
“Morgan,” he said, his voice carrying just enough projection for the nearest table of bridesmaids to hear. “Thank God you made it. We were worried you weren't going to crawl out of your bunker.”
I stopped six feet from him, letting the ambient noise of the party wash around us while the tiny receiver in my ear hummed to life.
“Hello, Greg,” I said, keeping my voice low enough that he had to lean in to hear me. “Nice party.”
“You look tense,” he murmured, his eyes scanning my face with a cool, clinical curiosity that didn't match his affectionate smile. “Did the big bad Air Force finally give you a time-out?”
“Something like that,” I replied, tilting my head slightly so the collar mic picked up every syllable. “Though I hear departures are running a little heavier than expected tonight. Must be all that extra cargo.”
Greg didn’t flinch. His smile didn’t even waver. But the air between us suddenly grew very cold.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Morgan,” he whispered softly, stepping just a fraction closer. “You’ve always had an overactive imagination. Now, are you going to go in there and apologize to your sister, or are you going to make a scene?”
Before I could answer, the side door of the ballroom swung open, and Britney appeared, her eyes red-rimmed and her veil clutched in her fist.
May you like
She took one look at us standing there, locked in that tense, silent standoff by the bar, and her face twisted with familiar, bitter resentment.
“Of course,” Britney hissed, marching right toward us. “Of course you had to show up and ruin the rehearsal dinner, too.”
