The air in Newport was thick with salt and money. It clung to the manicured hedges of the Breakers, whispered through the grand, echoing halls of the Elmsworth Estate, and settled like a fine, expensive dust on every surface.
For three days, they had been immersed in the world of Veronica Ashworth-Covington, the infamous “Bridezilla of the Season,” and the pressure was immense.
Willa, however, was thriving in the controlled chaos. She moved through the grand ballroom, clipboard in hand, a blur of calm efficiency.
She radiated a focused energy that Mads had always admired, but now, it seemed different. It was brighter, amplified.
And Mads knew the reason was currently setting up a tripod by the French doors, his dark hair falling over his forehead as he squinted at the light.
Caleb.
“Mads, can you confirm the ETA on the ice sculpture?” Willa called out, not looking up from her notes.
“Veronica specified the swan’s neck must have a curvature of precisely forty-five degrees. If it’s forty-four, she’ll apparently have a ‘conniption of historical proportions.’”
Caleb chuckled from across the room, a low, warm sound. “Let me know when that happens. I’ll want to get my camera ready.”
Willa shot him a look that was meant to be admonishing but was softened by a smile she couldn’t hide. “You’re a menace, Voss.”
“Just documenting reality, Grant,” he called back, their familiar refrain now an inside joke, a piece of their private language.
Mads felt a familiar knot tighten in her stomach. She forced a smile. “On it. I’ll go track down the ice man.”
She watched them for another moment. Willa pointed to a spot on the ceiling where a floral chandelier was being painstakingly assembled, and Caleb nodded, adjusting his lens, his gaze lingering on her profile a second too long.
They moved around each other with an easy, practiced rhythm, a team. To anyone else, it looked like a budding romance against a backdrop of opulence.
To Mads, it looked like a predator closing in on its prey.
Her suspicions about Caleb hadn’t faded since Wyoming. They’d sharpened.
It was in the way he watched things—not like a man capturing a beautiful memory, but like a biologist observing a specimen. He was always looking for the crack in the facade, the moment the mask slipped.
And his lens, more often than not, was aimed squarely at Willa as she held everything together.
She’d tried to warn her, of course. On the plane ride over, she’d gently probed. “He just seems more interested in the drama than the love story, you know?”
Willa had waved it off. “That’s just his artistic cynicism. Underneath it all, he’s… different. You just don’t see it.”
Oh, I see something, Mads had thought. I just don’t think it’s what you see.
Leaving the ballroom, Mads pulled out her phone to call the vendor. The hallway was a flurry of activity—florists rushing past with armfuls of Casablanca lilies, caterers arguing over linen placement.
She needed a quieter spot. She ducked into a small, unused library, the air smelling of old paper and lemon polish.
The door was slightly ajar, leading out to a secluded stone terrace overlooking a sprawling garden that sloped down toward the sea.
Through the gap, she heard a voice. Caleb’s voice.
It was low and urgent, stripped of the easy charm he used with Willa. He was pacing the length of the terrace, his back to her, his phone pressed to his ear.
Mads froze. It felt wrong to eavesdrop, a violation of the fragile truce she’d maintained for Willa’s sake.
But her gut, that unerring, insistent voice she’d learned to trust above all else, screamed at her to stay. She held her breath and leaned closer to the doorframe, concealing herself behind a heavy velvet curtain.
“…No, David, I know the deadline is tight, but you can’t rush this,” Caleb was saying, his tone sharp with a frustration he never showed in front of them.
“The Newport footage is the final piece. It’s the climax.”
A pause. Mads’s heart began to beat a heavy, painful rhythm against her ribs.
“Of course the Wyoming stuff was good,” he continued, running a hand through his hair.
“The family brawl was a goldmine, absolute cinematic gold. But it’s the contrast that sells the narrative. We need the high-society meltdown to balance the rustic implosion.”
Narrative. Goldmine. Implosion. The words landed like stones in Mads’s gut. This wasn’t wedding videographer talk. This was something else. Something cold and calculating.
“Look, I get it,” Caleb said, his voice dropping slightly.
“Her character arc is compelling. She’s the heart of it, the one trying to hold the fantasy together. The audience needs to root for her for the fall to have any impact.”
Her? The air in Mads’s lungs turned to ice. Oh, God. He’s talking about Willa.
He was talking about her best friend, her business partner, the woman who was currently falling head-over-heels for him, as if she were a character in a script he was writing. He wasn’t her partner; he was her protagonist.
“The tension is what makes it work,” Caleb went on, and Mads could almost hear the unseen producer, David, on the other end, pushing for more.
“We have the mounting pressure, the absurd demands of the clients, and then we have her, the ‘Happily Ever After Helper,’ trying to patch the holes in a sinking ship. It’s a perfect metaphor for the entire industry… Yes, yes, I’ve gotten plenty of her. The quiet moments, too. The pep talk she gave the groom in Jackson Hole? Incredible. So genuine. It’ll make the betrayal even more potent when the whole thing blows up in her face.”
Mads felt a wave of nausea so profound she had to press her hand against the cool wall to steady herself. Betrayal.
He had used the word. He was not just documenting the weddings; he was crafting a story at Willa’s expense.
A story that required her to fail. He wasn’t falling for her.
He was using her. The vulnerability she’d seen in him, the shared moments of honesty over whiskey in Wyoming—it had all been a lie.
Or worse, it had been real for Willa, but just B-roll for him.
A cold, hard fury solidified in her chest, replacing the shock. He was going to destroy her.
Not just her heart, but her business—the business they had built from nothing, the business that was Willa’s entire life’s dream. The Bridal Bliss feature was riding on this wedding.
A public implosion, curated and filmed by the man she was trusting, would be the end of everything.
Caleb was silent for a moment, listening. “I know,” he said, his voice suddenly weary, the sharp edge gone. “I’ll get what you need. The final scene. Just… let me handle it. I’ve got it covered.”
He ended the call and stood for a long moment, staring out at the ocean. He scrubbed a hand over his face, and in that gesture, Mads saw a flicker of something that looked like guilt.
But it didn’t matter. It wasn’t enough. Whatever conflict he was feeling, he had already made his choice. He was going to see his project through.
He pocketed his phone and turned, his expression shifting back to neutral as he headed for the door to the ballroom. Mads shrank back behind the curtain, her breath catching in her throat.
He walked right past the library, his footsteps echoing on the marble floor, oblivious.
She remained frozen for a full minute after he was gone, the silence of the room pressing in on her. The overheard conversation replayed in her mind, each word a separate, stinging confirmation of her deepest fears.
Character arc. Narrative tension. Goldmine. Betrayal.
She finally pushed herself away from the wall, her movements stiff. She had to tell Willa. She had to blow this whole thing wide open right now.
But as she took a step toward the door, she stopped. What would she say? “I heard Caleb on the phone. He’s making a documentary and you’re the tragic hero of his industry takedown.”
Willa wouldn’t believe her. She’d see it as Mads’s cynicism finally boiling over.
She would defend him, accuse Mads of trying to sabotage her happiness. It would be a fight, a terrible one, and Caleb would deny everything, painting Mads as the jealous, paranoid friend.
He would be calm and reasonable, and Willa, already so deeply under his spell, would choose to believe him.
It would be Mads’s word against his. And right now, his word meant more.
No. Accusations weren’t enough. She needed proof. Cold, hard, undeniable proof. Something Willa couldn’t explain away or ignore.
Her mind raced. The footage.
He had to have it with him. On his laptop, on a hard drive somewhere. Edited clips, a rough cut, a project file with his cynical voice-over. If she could just get her hands on it…
Composing herself was one of the hardest things she had ever had to do. She took a deep, shaky breath, smoothing down her blouse and forcing the rage into a tight, hard ball in her stomach.
She walked out of the library, her heart a block of ice.
When she re-entered the ballroom, she saw Willa laughing, her head tilted back as Caleb recounted some story, his hands gesturing animatedly. He’d seamlessly slipped his mask back on.
He caught Willa’s arm for a moment to steady her, and the casual touch was so intimate, so possessive, it made Mads’s blood run cold.
Willa saw her and beamed. “There you are! Any luck with the swan?”
Mads forced the corners of her mouth to lift. “He’s on his way. Forty-five degrees of graceful, frozen neck, guaranteed.”
“Thank God,” Willa sighed, turning her glowing smile back to Caleb. “See? We’ve got this.”
“We always do,” Caleb agreed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. His gaze met Mads’s over Willa’s shoulder.
It was just for a second, but in that brief glance, she saw nothing but easy confidence. He had no idea she knew. He thought he was in complete control of his narrative.
He was wrong.
I’m coming for you, Mads thought, her polite smile feeling like a grimace. You have no idea what I’m going to do to protect her.
She would play her part. She would be the helpful, efficient business partner.
She would watch, she would wait, and she would find her opening. He wanted a climax for his little film? She’d give him one.