The Newport suite was palatial, with sweeping views of the harbor where sailboats rocked like sleeping birds. A salty breeze drifted through the open balcony doors, carrying the faint, lonely cry of a distant foghorn.
It should have been serene. Instead, the air inside was thick with the lingering scent of stress and lukewarm Chinese takeout.
Empty cartons and crumpled napkins littered the coffee table, a testament to a fourteen-hour day spent placating heiress-bride Victoria Vandergrift, who had declared the shade of cream for the table linens “aggressively beige.”
Willa kicked off her heels, her feet aching in protest, and collapsed onto the plush sofa. Mads was already there, scrolling through her phone with a weary sigh, her usual fiery energy banked to a low ember.
“On a scale of one to ‘garter-snake incident,’” Willa began, rubbing her temples, “how bad was today?”
“We’re approaching ‘ranch-family brawl’ territory,” Mads said without looking up.
“Victoria wanted to know if we could source a swan. A single, elegant swan for the reflecting pool. When I told her about avian flu regulations and the general temperament of swans, she looked at me like I’d suggested serving Cheez Whiz on a Ritz cracker.”
Willa managed a weak laugh. “At least she didn’t ask for a flock. Small victories.”
This was their rhythm, their post-battle debrief. For years, they had navigated the choppy waters of the wedding industry together, a perfect partnership of Willa’s unflappable optimism and Mads’s pragmatic, no-nonsense realism.
Mads was the anchor that kept Willa from floating away on a cloud of romantic ideals; Willa was the sail that kept Mads from getting stuck in the cynical mud. Tonight, however, the anchor felt unusually heavy.
Mads put her phone down, the screen going dark. The sudden silence was unnerving.
“Wills,” she said, her voice quiet and stripped of its usual sarcasm. “Can we talk? For real?”
Willa’s stomach tightened. That tone was reserved for serious matters—late vendor payments, family emergencies, or the time Willa almost got bangs.
“Of course. What’s up? Did Victoria demand we fire the string quartet because their cellist has ‘sad eyes’?”
“No. It’s about Caleb.”
Willa’s guard went up instantly, a subtle but immediate shift in her posture. “What about him?” she asked, her voice carefully neutral.
Mads took a deep breath, choosing her words with a deliberation that set Willa’s teeth on edge.
“I overheard him on the phone earlier. When we were at the venue, he stepped outside to talk to his producer.”
“He’s a freelancer, Mads. He has other projects, a producer. That’s normal.” Willa was already building her defense, brick by logical brick.
“He wasn’t talking about a normal project,” Mads insisted, her gaze unwavering.
“He was talking about us. About this wedding. About Wyoming. He used phrases like… ‘character arcs’ and ‘narrative tension.’ He said the fight between the ranch families was a ‘goldmine of footage.’ And then he mentioned you.”
A cold dread, sharp and unwelcome, snaked its way up Willa’s spine. She ignored it. “Mentioned me how?”
“He said your… your sincerity was the perfect foil. That your story—your belief in all this—provided the ‘emotional core’ for his project.”
Mads’s eyes were filled with a pained urgency.
“Willa, he’s not just a wedding videographer. He’s making a documentary. An exposé. He’s using you. He’s using your clients. You’re not his love interest; you’re his main character.”
The words hung in the air, ugly and accusatory. Willa felt the blood drain from her face, replaced by a hot, defensive flush.
She could feel the foundation of the last few weeks—the charged glances, the shared whiskey, the quiet understanding, the dance—threatening to crumble. She refused to let it.
“You’re twisting his words,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended.
“He’s a filmmaker. That’s how they talk. It’s industry jargon. ‘Narrative tension’ is just a fancy way of saying it was a dramatic day.”
“No,” Mads said, shaking her head, her frustration growing.
“This was different. The tone he used… it was cold. Calculating. He’s telling a story, and it’s not the one we’re helping these couples write. He’s making a mockery of it, and he’s using your genuine belief in it all as a punchline.”
Willa stood up and walked to the balcony, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The sea air felt cold against her skin.
Mads’s theory was a perfect storm of all her deepest professional and personal fears: to be made a fool of, to have her life’s work invalidated, to have her heart manipulated. It was easier, safer, to believe her best friend was wrong.
“You’ve never liked him,” Willa said, her back to Mads.
“From the moment I mentioned him, you called him the ‘brooding camera guy.’ You’ve been looking for something, anything, to prove your cynicism right.”
“This isn’t about me being cynical!” Mads’s voice rose, cracking with emotion. She stood and came to the doorway of the balcony.
“This is about me protecting you! I’m your partner. I’m your best friend. My job is to see the things you don’t want to see. And I’m telling you, this guy is bad news. He’s playing a part.”
Willa turned to face her, her eyes flashing.
“The part he’s playing is a man who is hurt and disillusioned, who is slowly starting to believe again because of what he’s seen. Because of me. You didn’t see him in Wyoming. You didn’t see him put his camera down to help me. You weren’t there when he talked about his divorce, how much it broke him. You see a villain because that’s what you expect to see.”
Every word was a desperate reinforcement of her own narrative. To admit Mads might be right was to admit that the vulnerability Caleb had shown her on that balcony in the Tetons was a performance.
That the conflict in his eyes was not about his growing feelings for her, but about which camera angle would best capture her eventual humiliation. The thought was unbearable.
“So his sob story about his divorce gives him a free pass to secretly film you for his cynical takedown of your entire career?” Mads shot back, her voice laced with disbelief.
“Wake up, Willa! He’s getting you to open up, to trust him, because it makes for better footage. He’s not falling for you; he’s developing his protagonist!”
The accusation struck a nerve, raw and painful. A rift, deep and immediate, opened between them.
This wasn’t a friendly debate over floral arrangements anymore. It was an attack on Willa’s judgment, on her heart.
“That’s a horrible thing to say,” Willa said, her voice dropping to a dangerous low.
“The truth is sometimes horrible,” Mads pleaded, her own anger softening into desperation. “Just… be careful. Ask him. Ask him directly what he’s working on. See how he answers.”
“I don’t need to,” Willa stated, the finality in her tone like a slamming door.
“Because I trust him. And I’m sorry that you’re so determined to see the worst in people that you can’t stand to see me happy.”
The moment the words left her mouth, she knew she’d gone too far. It was the nuclear option, the one argument from which there was no easy return.
Mads recoiled as if she’d been slapped. The hurt in her eyes was profound, a deep, wounded shadow that extinguished the last of her fiery spirit.
“Wow,” Mads whispered, her voice barely audible. “Okay.”
She didn’t argue anymore. She just gave a single, sad nod, turned, and walked back into the suite.
Willa watched her go, a hollow ache blooming in her chest where her anger had been. She wanted to call her back, to apologize, but her pride was a stubborn wall.
She had chosen her side.
A few moments later, she heard the quiet click of Mads’s bedroom door closing. The suite, which had felt cozy and conspiratorial just minutes before, now seemed vast and empty.
Willa was alone, the silence amplifying the echo of her own harsh words. She sank into a balcony chair, wrapping her arms around herself against a chill that had nothing to do with the night air.
Was Mads right?
The question was a poisonous whisper in the back of her mind.
Character arcs. Narrative tension. Goldmine.
The words looped, clinical and detached. She thought of Caleb’s camera, how it always seemed to be present, even in their quietest moments.
She thought of his probing questions, which she had mistaken for genuine curiosity.
No. It couldn’t be. The way he looked at her during the dance in Wyoming… the way his hand had felt in hers… that wasn’t for a camera. That was real. It had to be.
Her phone buzzed on the small table beside her. She picked it up, her heart lurching.
It was a text from Caleb.
Still awake? Victoria just emailed asking if it’s possible to change the exit music to a live performance of a song she wrote herself. Save me.
A small, involuntary smile touched her lips. It was their private language, a shorthand of shared suffering at the hands of the wedding industrial complex.
It was simple, funny, and normal. It was a lifeline.
She typed back, her fingers flying across the screen, pushing away the doubt, the isolation, the sick feeling Mads’s words had left in her stomach.
Only if you agree to do the choreography. I need that on film.
His reply was instantaneous. It’s a deal. You’re the only thing keeping me sane here.
Willa stared at the words, You’re the only thing keeping me sane here. Her heart swelled with a fierce, protective certainty.
Mads was wrong. She had to be.
This feeling, this connection, was real. She was doubling down, tripling down, betting everything on it.
Clinging to Caleb’s words, she let the warmth of them push away the cold reality of the closed door to her best friend’s room. She was not a character.
She was the one he trusted. And as the Newport fog rolled in, blanketing the harbor in a soft, obscuring mist, she felt utterly sure of her choice, and terrifyingly, completely alone.