But by the time the sun rose over the harbor, the women who thought they would sabotage my day had no idea they were the ones stepping into a trap of their own making.
By seven in the morning, I had transformed my wedding into a coordinated operation.
My brother Ryan arrived first, still in yesterday’s jeans, carrying coffee for everyone as if he hadn’t driven two hours before dawn. He listened without interrupting while I played the recording. His face went still in that way it did when he was angry enough to become dangerously calm.
“You’re not going near them alone,” he said.
“I’m not planning to.”
Next came Chloe, who had once organized hospital fundraisers and treated wedding crises like tactical missions. She hugged me once and said, “Okay. We protect the dress, the rings, the timeline, and your nerves. Everything else is optional.”
