Page 88 of Father of the Bride

Most of the onlookers took his advice, but Mark was still too shook to move. The look on his daughter’s face haunted him. Her words still echoed in his head, as did Davion’s.

She canceled the wedding, and it was all Mark’s fault.

Chapter 30

Saturday-Thedayof the wedding

The morning sun seemed to take forever to rise over the villa, as if even the sky wasn’t sure what kind of day this was going to turn out to be.

The bridal breakfast had been scheduled for 8 a.m. sharp in the solarium, complete with monogrammed napkins, rose-petal centerpieces, and a custom mimosa bar. But by 8:16, the only people present were the bridesmaids, most of them in sunglasses, nursing headaches and nausea over their coffee.

Daisy stood near the French doors, iPad clutched so tight, her knuckles were white. Her eyes darted back and forth, her voice becoming shrill.

“Where’s the bride?” she asked for the sixth time.

Jules, still in her silk pajamas, twirled a strawberry on her fork and sighed. “Nobody knows. Davion’s gone, too. And Mark. And Sunny.”

Daisy blinked. “So basically, the most important people are all missing.”

“That would be the working theory,” Jules said dryly.

Tigra piped up. “Technically, they could be around here somewhere. But after last night, I wouldn’t be shocked if they all hopped a flight and went home.”

“Oh, God,” Daisy said. “We have 138 guests arriving soon and no confirmation a wedding is even happening. I’m gonna throw up.”

From the other end of the table, Carmen mumbled, “Join the club.”

Tidewater was Mark’s favorite course. It sat nestled in the hills overlooking the coastline, and it always made him feel calmer. He came here after Alayna died, something that puzzled a lot of his friends and family. And he came here this morning for the same reason he did three years ago; to clear his head and figure out what to do with himself.

He stood beside the tee box in his slacks and polo, clutching his driver like it was the only thing keeping him upright. He’d barely slept. His eyes were red. His back hurt. His mind raced.

Beside him, his father lined up his shot in calm silence. Still lean and strong in his late sixties, William wore an expression of permanent annoyance, like he barely tolerated life.

He swung. The ball arced perfectly down the fairway.

“Nice,” Mark said.

William stepped back. “Your turn.”

Mark teed up, took a breath, and swung too hard. The ball sliced left, disappearing into the trees.

“Shit,” he muttered, frustrated again.

They rode in silence in the cart before William finally spoke up.

“I heard all about last night,” he said, not looking over. “Sounds like a goddamn circus.”

Mark didn’t answer.

“You’re lucky nobody got seriously hurt.”

Mark gave a bitter chuckle. “We were just blowing off steam. It ain’t that deep.”

“Bullshit. That old you came out last night. Admit it.”

“I’m not ashamed of fighting for Cici. I just hate the fallout, that’s all.”

William parked the cart, turning to look at his hardheaded son. “Shame is a necessary evil. It propels us forward in life. It makes us evaluate our bullshit and commit to being better versions of ourselves. I would hope you wanna be better than what you were out on that beach last night.”

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