The key card shouldn't exist. I stare at it in Diane's hand — white plastic with gold script, identical to mine except for the label underneath: *Bride #2 - S. Monroe*. Same ceremony time. Plus one hour. "I'm sorry," I say, keeping my voice level. "Did you just say there's another bride booked for my wedding day?" Diane, the venue manager I've been working with for eight months, sets the card down on her desk too carefully. She's mid-fifties, efficient, the kind of woman who color-codes her clipboard. Right now, she looks like she might be sick. "Harper, I—there's been a scheduling error. I'm handling it." "A scheduling error." I pick up the key card. The weight of it feels wrong. "With my exact time slot. An hour after my ceremony." "It's being resolved—" "Who's S. Monroe?" Diane's mouth opens. Closes. She reaches for the card, but I pull it back. "Harper, please. Let me figure this out before—" "Before what?" Behind me, the office door opens. "Why are you here a day early?" I turn. Ethan stands in the doorway, still in his suit from work, looking between me and Diane with an expression I can't read. My fiancé. The man I'm supposed to marry in six days. "I could ask you the same thing," I say. He steps inside, closes the door. "Diane texted. Said there was an issue with the final walkthrough." "Funny. She didn't text me." Diane stands abruptly. "I should give you two some privacy—" "Sit down." I don't raise my voice. I don't have to. "Tell me who S. Monroe is." Ethan's jaw tightens. It's a tell I know well — the one he uses when a client asks a question he doesn't want to answer. "Harper," he says quietly. "Put the key down." "Answer the question." "You're not supposed to be here yet." The phrasing hits me wrong. *Not supposed to be here yet.* Like my early arrival is the problem. Like I've walked in on something I wasn't meant to see. I look down at the key card again. At the careful handwriting on the floral preference card clipped behind it. I know that handwriting.