Chapter 35 The morning after
Dawn crept through the hotel curtains like a reluctant witness to the destruction of the night before. Greyson had managed only a few hours of restless sleep, his mind churning with regret and self-recrimination. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Cassie's face as he'd screamed at her, the tears streaming down her cheeks as she'd walked away from him.
He'd been awake since four AM, pacing the small hotel room and checking his phone obsessively. No messages from Cassie. No missed calls. The silence was deafening, and it spoke volumes about the damage he'd done. He remembered every venomous word, every misplaced accusation born of his own insecurity and fear. The argument had started over something so small—a text from an old college friend—but Greyson had escalated it into a catastrophic eruption, proving every fear Cassie might have had about his temper and his trust issues. He hadn't just fought with her; he had attacked the foundation of their relationship. The worst part was the way she hadn't fought back, just let his words wash over her until she was soaked through with pain and disappointment.
At six, he couldn't stand it anymore. He showered, the hot water doing little to ease the tension in his shoulders or the ache in his chest. As he dressed, he caught sight of himself in the mirror and winced. His face was a map of the fight with Jake—split lip, bruised jaw, a cut above his eyebrow that had scabbed over. But the physical damage was nothing compared to the emotional wreckage he'd created. The reflection staring back was not the man Cassie had married, but a battered, hollow shell of his own making. He knew he didn't look like a newlywed; he looked like a man who had lost a war he shouldn't have started.
The hotel restaurant was nearly empty when he arrived, just a few early risers having coffee and reading newspapers. The smell of bacon and eggs turned his stomach, but he knew he needed to eat something. He ordered black coffee and toast, though he wasn't sure he'd be able to keep anything down. He was running on pure adrenaline and shame, a mixture that tasted metallic and bitter.
He sat at a corner table, trying to make himself invisible while he figured out his next move. The wedding was in eight hours—a perverse thought, considering his own marriage was only hours old and already on life support. He had no idea what he was going to say to Cassie when he saw her. Assuming she'd even speak to him. How do you apologize for an act of emotional violence? How do you un-ring that bell? He rehearsed phrases in his head: I’m sorry, I was drunk, I was scared, I don’t know what came over me. All of them felt flimsy, pathetic excuses for inexcusable behavior.
"Rough night?"
Greyson looked up to see Brandon approaching his table. The man's expression was different from what he'd expected—not the cheerful, manic jitters of a groom a few hours from the altar, but hollow, defeated. There was something about Brandon that seemed broken, like a man who'd lost everything that mattered before the loss had even officially occurred. His usually immaculate suit was wrinkled, his hair disheveled, and his eyes carried a weight that made Greyson’s own problems seem momentarily bearable.
"You could say that," Greyson replied, gesturing to the empty chair across from him. "Please, sit."
Brandon sat down heavily, his shoulders sagging. He didn't offer a platitude about the wedding or a joke about last night's reception. He just looked at Greyson, friend to friend, in a moment of shared, silent misery.
"You look like hell," Brandon muttered.
"I feel worse." Greyson studied his friend's face. "But you don't look much better. What's going on?" The question was a simple query, but Greyson could feel the gravity of the answer before it was spoken. Something fundamental had shifted in Brandon.
The waitress came over, and Brandon ordered coffee with shaking hands. His usual confident demeanor was gone, replaced by a raw vulnerability. When she left, he buried his face in his palms, and Greyson could hear him take a shuddering breath that sounded more like a choked sob. Greyson waited, the silence in the corner of the restaurant suddenly charged with unspoken dread.
"The wedding's off," Brandon said quietly, his voice muffled by his hands.
Greyson’s mind stalled. The sheer impossibility of the words made them hard to process. The wedding was off? Eight hours away? The guests, the venue, the families—the staggering logistics of the failure were mind-boggling.
"What? Why?" Greyson asked, leaning forward, his own problems momentarily forgotten in the face of this new, shared catastrophe.
"Because I'm a coward." Brendan's voice was thick with emotion, heavy with self-loathing. "Because I've been lying to myself and to Vivian for months. Because I'm still in love with someone else."
Greyson felt his blood run cold. He didn't understand. Brandon and Vivian were the perfect couple, the steady, reliable pair. Their love had always seemed like an anchor. "Who?"
"Meagan." The name came out as barely a whisper. "Your sister. My... Greyson, I'm still in love with Meagan."