Page 84 of Gym With Benefits

"Hunter, stop," I muttered, my heels clicking sharply against the hardwood as we hurried through the grand foyer toward the rear exit. "This isn't necessary. She clearly doesn't want me here. Let's just go back to the truck."

"You're attending this wedding, Jess," Hunter countered, his pace never wavering as he pulled me along. "For closure."

"I don't need closure."

"The closure's for me," he shot back, turning his head to flash that familiar, wicked smirk. "I want to watch her expression when she realizes her little stunt failed."

A laugh burst out of me, his uncanny ability to lighten my darkest moods striking the target yet again.

The rear exit of the mansion opened onto a sprawling back garden that looked like a page torn from a luxury bridal magazine. Rows of white Tiffany chairs stretched across the manicured lawn, glistening under the bright midday sun. At the far end, an elaborate archway woven with white roses and eucalyptus stood waiting for the couple.

The plan to slip unnoticed into the back row fell flat within two seconds. Every seat along the rear perimeter contained a body, forcing a rapid tactical pivot. Hunter maintained a firm grip on my hand, guiding me down the central aisle toward the only remaining pocket of empty seats near the middle section. Heads turned, the late arrival drawing a dozen curious glances from the seated guests.

We slid into two empty chairs, the white wood creaking slightly beneath our weight. Hunter’s palm immediately covered mine on my knee, his thumb tracing a steady, soothing circle over my knuckles to hold my focus away from staring eyes.

The traditional wedding march began to play from a hidden sound system, but the expected spike of jealousy or bitterness failed to materialize. Looking toward the altar where Jacksyn stood in his stiff tuxedo, the old wounds left by Amberleigh felt hollow. No desire for revenge lingered in my chest. Instead, a profound wave of emotion for the three men in my life filled me, a deep, solid realization of how much my world expanded beyond this petty high school drama.

"Love is not a transactional contract," the officiant’s voice boomed across the garden, his words bouncing off the brick walls of the mansion. "It is a choice made every single day, an expansion of the self to accommodate the soul of another."

Hunter’s head turned at the exact moment my own gaze drifted away from the altar. Our eyes locked, his brilliant blue irises reflecting the summer sky. A genuine, relaxed smile touched my lips, stripping away the last remnant of defensive armor. He leaned in across the narrow gap between our chairs, his lips pressing against mine in a tender, unhurried kiss that tasted faintly of the open road.

"Amberleigh and Jacksyn, I now pronounce you husband and wife," the officiant announced.

The crowd erupted into polite applause as the newlyweds kissed and turned to parade down the aisle. The tension in the garden dissolved into a general chatter as an announcer directed the crowd to move toward the white marquee tent erected on the western lawn for the reception.

The guests rose in a single, fluid mass, shuffling toward the arched entrance of the massive canvas structure. Moving through the white drapes with Hunter close at my back, my eyes scanned the perimeter of the tent, cataloging the ice sculptures and champagne towers.

Movement near the service entrance on the far side of the canvas caught my attention. Two tall, exceptionally broad silhouettes stepped through the kitchen flap, adjusting their suit jackets with a practiced, nonchalant ease that belonged nowhere near a catering crew. Brock and Dane slipped into the reception crowd, their eyes immediately scanning the room until they locked straight onto me.

37

Dane

The white marquee tent contained enough tulle and corporate-level flower arrangements to fund a small island nation, but the architectural layout possessed a glaring flaw. Table fourteen sat tucked behind an industrial cooling unit near the service entrance. Jess and Hunter looked up with identical expressions of pure amusement as Brock and my own six-foot-two frame integrated into the small seating arrangement.

"The trial you held in the living room lacked proper legal representation," Brock announced, his hands smoothing the lapels of his charcoal suit jacket as he dropped into the plastic folding chair next to Jess. "The consensus determined it was unfair. I deserved to be here."

Jess leaned her chin in her hand, her eyes sliding toward mine with a sharp, inquisitive gleam. "I thought you had a multi-million-dollar acquisition meeting that you couldn't miss for the world, Dane."

"When word reached me that Brock booked a rental car to crash a suburban Virginia wedding, the corporate calendar lost its priority status," a dry tone accompanied the explanation as the white linen napkin hit my thigh. "I refused to be the only one left out of the disaster scenario. I moved some things around."

The placement of table fourteen offered an excellent vantage point of the elite Charlottesville high society circle. We occupied the designated misfit table, an overflow zone for people who clearly failed to meet Amberleigh’s rigorous social matrix. The position functioned perfectly, granting us absolute freedom to exchange unfiltered commentary without the neighboring guests overhearing the details.

The head table took the stage under a blast of pink spotlighting. The maid of honor tapped her champagne flute with a silver spoon, a high-pitched ring signaling the start of the speeches. What followed was a masterclass in psychological fiction. The woman launched into an overhead lecture about Amberleigh’s pristine character, portraying the bride as a perfect princess who never committed a single infraction in her entire life. A fairytale narrative constructed entirely out of selective amnesia.

"This is a joke," Hunter muttered, his fork clinking against the porcelain plate with a high level of irritation.

"The delusion requires a serious amount of capital to maintain," Brock added, his teeth grinding together as the bride wiped a theatrical, nonexistent tear from her cheek. "The perfect princess routine wears thin after ten minutes."

Jess reached across the table, her small hand dropping onto my forearm to apply a steady, grounding pressure. "Hey. Calm down, all of you. Let it go. I’m finally over it. It doesn't touch me anymore. Look at who I brought with me. I'm happy."

Her resilience stood out as a concrete fact, but the content of the room still demanded a correction. Jess possessed a strength that required zero coddling, but her preference for taking the high road failed to align with my current operational goals. She deserved to take credit for surviving the toxicity, not just sit in the shadows of an overflow table while the instigators rewrote history.

The maid of honor raised her glass, concluding the toast with a sentimental wish for eternal perfection. The tent filled with the polite applause of two hundred oblivious guests.

The plastic chair scraped sharply against the floorboards as my body rose to full height. The movement carried a total lack of hesitation. Jess’s eyes widened in sheer horror as my stride carried me straight down the central aisle toward the main podium. The distance between table fourteen and the microphone dissolved in a matter of seconds. Before the wedding coordinator could calculate a defense, my fingers wrapped around the sleek metal casing of the microphone, the audio feedback cutting through the applause with a sudden, definitive whine.

"First, congratulations to the happy couple," my voice boomed through the high-end sound system, cutting clean through the residual clinking of champagne flutes. Two hundred faces turned toward the podium in unison. "Most of you don't know me, which makes sense because I crashed this wedding."