The wedding is ridiculous in the best way.

Villa in the South of France. White peonies everywhere. Champagne towers. A harpist playing Lana Del Rey during the ceremony because of course Alexandra insisted. Everything is golden and soft and beautiful, just like her. And Charles can’t stop looking at her like she’s the only person on earth.

You’re her maid of honor. Her ride-or-die. Her partner in crime since before either of you could drive. And you’re so happy for her it aches in that way happiness can, when it’s almost too much.

You’re also deeply, dangerously aware of the fact that she keeps giving you that look.

The one she gets when she’s plotting something.

You try to ignore it. Until the reception, when the sky has gone full cotton-candy pink and the speeches have ended and the lights have just started to glow across the courtyard.

She finds you.

“Come with me,” she says, grabbing your wrist.

“Why do you look like you’re about to set me up?”

“I am about to set you up.”

You stop walking. “Alex—”

“No,” she cuts you off, eyes gleaming. “Listen. You’ve been so good. You helped me with the dress, with the flowers, with not murdering Charles when he forgot the rehearsal time. Let me give you one small gift.”

“I don’t need a gift.”

She smiles like she already knows you’re lying. “You need a distraction.”

Then she nods.

And that’s when you see him.

João Félix.

Standing near the garden wall in a crisp suit, tie loosened, curls slightly messy like he ran a hand through them too many times. He’s holding a drink, chatting with someone — until Alexandra waves. He looks over.

And your whole body stills.

“Alexandra,” you whisper.

“He’s Charles’ friend,” she says, proud of herself. “He’s quiet. He’s nice. He’s so your type.”

“He’s João Félix.”

“And?” she shrugs. “So what?”

You don’t have time to answer because he’s already walking toward you.