Page 112 of The Plus One Contract

Daniel.

Right. Daniel. Of course, he’s here. He’s the best man.

He’s wearing a crisp gray suit pinned with a shining boutonniere, the picture of polished composure.

As soon as he sees me, something flickers in his eyes. I’m unsure if it’s hesitation or unease. Maybe both.

“Hey,” he finally says, shifting slightly in the doorway. “Look, about last night…”

I hold his gaze, already bracing myself for whatever half-hearted apology he’s about to offer.

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, a nervous tell I know too well. “I was out of line.”

That’s all.

No excuses. No drunken justifications. Just a quiet, reluctant acknowledgment of guilt.

It should feel like a victory.

I just feel tired.

“Already forgotten,” I say, giving him the out he’s looking for.

His shoulders drop, but he still looks like he wants to say more. “You look beautiful, Sienna.”

The words land with less impact than I expect, more a practiced line than heartfelt.

“Thank you,” I manage, forcing my voice steady.

So that’s it, then. The sum of six years of history. A compliment that feels about as personal as a weather forecast.

And it feels… okay. It feels good even.

His eyes flick downward, scanning my dress in a polite, if somewhat stilted, way. There’s no heat, no nostalgia, no ache. Just… nothing.

I breathe out slowly with relief so sharp I almost feel lightheaded.

He shifts his weight, nodding once before stepping aside. “Jeremy’s inside. He’s still messing with his tie. Let me give you two a minute.”

I nod, slipping past him. “Appreciate it.”

As I step inside, I feel the finality.

It doesn’t hurt. Not even a little.

When I take another step inside, the faint tang of aftershave hits my nose. It’s one I vaguely recall from old times, but it doesn’t stir up the heartbreak I used to expect.

The room is half chaos—garment bags draped across chairs, an ironing board with a half-wrinkleless shirt, a shoe box tipped precariously on the edge of the bed. My brother stands by the mirror, a tie in a messy knot. He looks like he’s strangling himself as he curses under his breath.

“In here, sis,” Jeremy says, waving a hand. “I can’t get this stupid tie to do what I want it to do.”

I step forward, forcing a small grin. “You look like you’re trying to murder it, Jer. You were never much good at these things. Calm down.”

He groans, arms dropping. “How am I supposed to be calm? My wedding’s in a matter of hours, Grace is around here somewhere with her entire family, and Mom is triple-checking every detail like it’s the end of the world if a napkin is folded the wrong way. How are you?” The question is loaded, delivered with a sideways glance.

I shrug, stepping close to him and swatting his hands away from the offending tie.

“I’m fine,” I say, which is half-true, half-lie, but I don’t want to go deeper. Not here, not now. I focus on the knot, sliding and adjusting with nimble fingers.

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