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A member of the estate staff approached me with visible respect.
“Ms. Warren, we have a private suite ready if you would like to change, and we can provide anything you need.”
I thanked her and accepted, not because I needed their rescue, but because accepting care is not the same as accepting pity. An hour later, I returned in an ivory gown Juliet’s stylist found in the bridal wardrobe collection, my chair cleaned as much as possible, my hair reset, and my face calm enough that people kept stepping out of my way before I reached them.
The party that remained was not glamorous in the old sense.
It was better.
People spoke softly, honestly, and with less performance. Some guests left in embarrassment. Others stayed because they loved Juliet and Preston more than they feared association. The LED screen, cleaned of evidence and restored by a shaken technician, now showed quiet photographs of the couple with their families.
When Juliet handed me the microphone later that evening, I almost refused.
Then I saw Blaine’s empty place among the groomsmen and realized the room needed to hear the ending from me.
