The morning air at the resort carried the sweet, heavy scent of white roses and fresh coffee. Staff members moved quickly along stone pathways, clipboards in hand, adjusting floral arrangements and confirming last-minute details.
My sister was getting married that day. And I was supposed to be happy.
I stood near the entrance wrapped in a satin robe, gripping a garment bag and running on nerves and waterproof mascara. My phone buzzed constantly with instructions from my mother. Hair at eight. Photos at ten. Do not make this difficult.
The morning felt like it was moving without me.
Our assigned driver, a quiet and composed man named Marcus, waited beside a black SUV near the curb. He had been arranged by the venue as family transport for the weekend. He was polite, efficient, and largely invisible, which is exactly how he was meant to be.
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