The reception was glowing with golden lights, soft music drifting through the air as clinking glasses and warm laughter filled the room. You were finally married. You and Zayne sat at the sweetheart table, side by side—finally alone after the whirlwind ceremony—picking at your dinners and whispering about the chaos of the day, laughing under your breath about Tara fighting off jealous women in the venue, and Greyson stuffing five rolls into his mouth.

Then came her.

Amanda.

Wearing a white dress that nearly looked bridal. With two guests she definitely didn’t RSVP for. And already earlier, she made a scene about the cake—loudly complaining it wasn’t “as moist as the one at her cousin’s wedding.”

And now, she walked straight up to your table like nothing was wrong. With a fake smile and a champagne glass that hadn’t left her hand all night, she leaned in slightly—too close—and said with syrupy urgency, “Zayne, can I talk to you for a second? Your.. wife is kind of distracting my son.”

Zayne didn’t even blink. Fork paused midair, jaw flexing slightly. He gave her a look. The look.

“Are you serious right now?” he said plainly, not even trying to mask his tone.

Amanda blinked, clearly caught off guard. “I just thought—”

“No. No, you didn’t think,” Zayne cut her off, setting down his fork and wiping his hands with a napkin, calmly. “You wore white to a wedding that wasn’t yours. You brought extra guests we didn’t account for. And now you insult my wife and accuse her of something she didn't do..?!”

Her mouth opened, stunned.

Zayne leaned forward, voice lower but firm. “Amanda, I’m a cardiologist. Not a valet manager. Go talk to the wedding planner—or better yet, the security. But if you need a heart transplant in the next five minutes, I’m your guy. Otherwise, enjoy the cake you don’t like and sit in silence!.”

Amanda stood frozen, flustered, then turned and stormed off, heels clicking hard against the floor.