Jacob Adlerstein never looked right in a suit.

He’d worn one twice—his sister’s wedding and a court date that hadn’t even been his—and both times he’d felt like a mutt stuffed in a tux. But for Alan he’d done it again. The man had been his best friend since they were kids, so Jacob shaved, wrestled into the monkey suit, and stood under the white canopy at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden pretending the tie wasn’t choking him.

Alan looked like he’d been born in a suit. Navy wool, polished shoes, that easy lawyer’s smile. Jacob was all rough edges and busted knuckles. If Alan was champagne in crystal, Jacob was bourbon in a chipped glass.

The garden felt like a postcard. Roses heavy with perfume, sunlight pouring gold through the leaves, a string quartet sawing at something fancy. Jacob shifted his weight behind Alan, best-man spot, and let his eyes wander to the bride.

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He’d met her twice before. Once at the engagement dinner, once when Alan had said, “This is my oldest friend.” She’d been polite, soft-voiced, eyes sliding over Jacob like she couldn’t figure out what box he fit in. There’d been something breakable about her then, like she wasn’t sure she belonged in the story she’d walked into.

She looked pale that afternoon, lace tight around her throat like a collar. Her hands trembled on the bouquet of white orchids. Pretty—quiet, natural pretty, not the kind you paint on. Then Jacob saw it happen—the hard blink, the way all the color slid out of her face right before the officiant asked if anybody had reason to speak.

Her lips parted. She looked at Alan—really looked—and something in her eyes cracked clean through.

And then she bolted.

Gasps rippled through the guests. Alan’s hand shot out, caught nothing. The music stuttered and died. Jacob just stood there a second, watching her run down the aisle and vanish under the archway.

Alan’s voice followed, rough as sandpaper. “Why?”

The reception never even opened. By sundown everybody in that garden was carrying a story about the runaway bride and the lawyer left at the altar. Jacob stayed because that’s what you do for your brother-in-arms. He sat next to Alan while the man’s whole world went sideways.

Alan stared at the ring in his palm. No tears. No yelling. Just that blank look of a man trying to work out a math problem that had no answer. Finally he looked up, eyes red, voice flat.

“Find her.”

Jacob frowned. “What?”

“Find her,” Alan said again. “I need to know why.”

Jacob didn’t ask what he was supposed to do once he did. He just nodded. That’s the kind of man he was.

It took three days to chase her down. A canceled card, a quick flight under a maiden name, a trail through LAX and then Singapore. Last hit was a charge at a place called Amankila—some resort perched over the sea in Bali. The sort of place folks go when they want to disappear.

Sixteen hours on a plane. Another hour in a taxi winding through jungle roads while the driver talked about tourists and temples. When they finally pulled up, the heat hit Jacob like opening a forge. Frangipani trees lined the stone paths, villas terraced down toward an ocean so blue it looked fake.

The girl at the desk gave up the villa number without a blink—like runaway brides showed up every week. Jacob followed the path, boots scuffing the smooth stone, until he found the place half-hidden behind a spill of bougainvillea.

The door was open, only a sheer white curtain moving in the sea breeze. Beyond it, the ocean stretched out like hammered silver.

She was standing barefoot at the edge of the infinity pool, a white sundress fluttering around her knees, hair pinned any old way, skin warm with sun. Smaller than he remembered. Not fragile, though. More like somebody who’d finally stopped running.

Jacob stood there too long, caught between being mad as hell and something he didn’t want to name. He’d come ready to demand answers.

She turned, as if she’d felt him there. Her eyes went wide.

Jacob cleared his throat. “Hell of a place to hide, sweetheart.”