Chapter 8 - The Reception’s New Rhythm
The reception ballroom at the historic downtown estate was a vision of cascading greenery, twinkling fairy lights, and polished mahogany tables.
Traditionally, the speeches at weddings are fraught with passive-aggressive family jokes, embarrassing childhood stories told by overenthusiastic groomsmen, and polite, forced applause. But today’s reception carried a different electric charge. The air was light, buzzing with an unspoken collective healing.
When the DJ tapped his microphone and announced the maid of honor speech, Brooke stepped up to the podium with a cheeky grin.
“For those of you who were at the chapel today,” Brooke began, scanning the room with a dramatic twinkle in her eye, “you witnessed what I am officially calling the most iconic plot twist in wedding history. Clara Vance is an architectural genius, and apparently, a psychological mastermind.”
Laughter rippled through the ballroom. I blushed, taking a sip of champagne while Ethan squeezed my knee under the table.
“But jokes aside,” Brooke continued, her voice softening as she looked across the room, “today we saw something rare. We saw a family stop fighting the ghosts of their past and choose each other instead. To Clara and Ethan—and to Paige, who just proved she can rock a white dress better than anyone I've ever seen—to love, growth, and new beginnings.”
Glasses clinked across the room. A chorus of cheers rose to the vaulted ceiling.
Later, as the band struck up a slow, melodic jazz tune, Paige walked over to our table. She wasn't wearing the white silk dress anymore; she had changed into a sleek, emerald-green jumpsuit that fit her like a glove.
“May I?” she asked, gesturing toward Ethan with a playful eyebrow raise.
Ethan laughed, standing up immediately. “Be my guest. Just don't drop her; she’s my wife in about four hours of legal paperwork.”
Paige and I stepped out onto the polished wooden dance floor. As the music swelled around us, we wrapped our arms around each other, swaying gently beneath the glowing chandeliers.
“You know,” Paige murmured softly against my shoulder, “Mom would have loved this.”
May you like
“She planned it,” I whispered back, resting my head against hers. “Every single detail.”
For the first time in our lives, there was no jealousy, no performance, and no invisible scoreboard. There was only the steady, comforting rhythm of our heartbeats, moving in sync at last.
