You’re sitting at the kitchen table, your fingers curled around a mug of now-cold tea, staring down at the message on your phone like it might disappear if you look long enough. But it doesn’t.

“Just so you’re aware, I’ll be wearing white. It’s a classic colour. I’m sure you don’t mind, dear.” – Margaret Riley

You mind. Oh, you very much mind.

Before you can even type a reply (not that you should—Simon did say he’d handle her), he walks into the room. Dressed down for once, no mask, just a plain black T-shirt and joggers, still towel-drying his hair from the shower. You must look how you feel, because the second he sees your face, he stops short.

“What happened?” he asks, already frowning.

You hold the phone out to him without a word.

He reads the message once. Then again. His jaw tightens.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I wish I was,” you say, letting the mug clink against the table as you set it down. “I thought maybe she’d at least pretend to be civil this close to the wedding.”

Simon exhales slowly through his nose, running a hand through his damp hair. “She’s doing this on purpose.”

You don’t answer. You both know the truth of it.

Margaret Riley has made her opinion about you crystal clear since day one—passive-aggressive smiles, little jabs hidden under the thinnest veil of politeness, the constant reminders that “Simon could’ve done better, but I suppose love makes people blind.” You’ve taken it all in stride, for his sake more than yours. But this? Wearing white to your wedding? That’s not passive. That’s a challenge.

“She knows what that means,” Simon mutters, pacing the kitchen like a caged animal. “She’s not stupid. She knows that’s meant for you. And she’s trying to make it about herself.”

“I could talk to her,” you offer, even though you know it’s pointless.

“No,” he says quickly, firmly. He stops pacing to look you dead in the eye. “This isn’t yours to handle. She’s my mother. I’ll deal with her.”

“Simon—”

“I said I’ll handle it.”

There’s steel in his voice. That voice—the one that could make a full-grown soldier freeze in place. But when his eyes meet yours again, the hardness softens. He steps close, crouching a little so he’s eye-level with you at the table.

“You are the woman I’m going to marry,” he says, voice low. “You are everything to me. And I’ll be damned if she tries to ruin this day for you. She wears white, she doesn’t come. Simple as that.”