Page 302 of Wild Card 13

Stella Watson passing once through the doorway with her camera lowered, quiet as a breath, getting the kind of image no other reporter would have been allowed to take. Not intrusive. Not hungry. Just present. Respectful. Like she understood this was news to everyone else, but family to the people inside the room.

And Bea laughing through tears when the baby shifted hard against her bladder. “Already opinionated,” she said, pressing a hand to the curve of her stomach.

“Wonder where that comes from,” I said.

She pointed at me. “That sounded judgmental.”

“It was admiration.”

By the time the dress came out, even Vivienne stopped moving.

The dress was ivory and timeless, all structure and softness at once. Off-the-shoulder. A fitted bodice that gave way into an empire waist, then a skirt that fell around Bea like someone had taken every old-world painting of a bride and made it breathe. The veil was cathedral-length, delicate enough to look impossible.

We got Bea into the dress with the care of people handling something sacred and mildly explosive. Freya managed the train. Micah handled buttons. Lo watched Bea’s face in the mirror. I stood behind her with the veil in my hands, terrified to breathe wrong.

When it was done, Bea looked at herself and went completely still.

I had known Bea as the person who could make a grown hockey player regret an ill-advised quote with one glance. I had seen her survive pressure, build strategy out of ashes, and love Alois Müller with the kind of loyalty that made the rest of us look underdeveloped.

I had never seen her look like this.

Bea turned from the mirror and found me watching. “Don’t,” she warned, already blinking.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought something sentimental.”

“I would never.”

“You absolutely would.”

I smiled, because my throat had gotten suspiciously tight and I did not trust it with words.

Bea reached for my hand. A quick private moment in the middle of a room full of women pretending not to watch us. “Thank you,” she muttered softly.

“For what?”

“For yesterday. For today. For caring about all the pieces.” Her smile trembled. “Even the stupid frozen cat.”

“Bento is not stupid. He is an icon.”

Bea laughed, but her eyes stayed wet. “I’m serious, Luce.”

I squeezed her hand. “You don’t have to thank me for loving you.”

Her face crumpled.

“Oh, absolutely not,” Vivienne said from across the room. “No. We are done with facial flooding. Makeup is sealed. Feelings are now scheduled for the ceremony.”

Bea laughed through another almost-sob.

Vivienne pointed at the ceiling as though making an announcement to a higher power. “I am not afraid of love, but I am extremely afraid of mascara.”

The ceremony space looked like a secret garden had been invited to a royal wedding and had accepted with excellent manners.

The Sunken Garden had always been beautiful, but that day it felt like it had been waiting for Bea and Alois specifically. Ivory florals climbed and spilled and softened every line. Eucalyptus garlands curved through gold accents and candlelight. The airsmelled green and clean and faintly sweet, like summer had been polished for company.

There was no hockey branding.