“Oh, right.” Clearly the cuff-link jig was up so I switched to a different pretending-everything-was-normal strategy. “Anyway, shouldn’t we be not seeing each other before the—” Finally, I glanced Oliver’s way and realised that he looked, if anything, worse than I did. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or insulted. “Actually, are you okay?”

Oliver’s mouth tightened. Then he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “Frankly, no.”

Fuck, he knew. He fucking knew. I had no idea how he knew, but he fucking knew. “Look,” I blurted. “Oliver. Whatever Bridge has told you, it’s very out of context.”

Walking slowly and a little unsteadily, Oliver pulled a chair over and sank down onto it. It was about the gravest I’d ever seen him. And I’d seen him at his father’s funeral.

“Oliver,” I began, wanting to go into damage-limitation mode but still not sure what the damage was or how to limit it.

“Lucien.”

It wasn’t exactly a reply because I’d barely said anything. And it wasn’t exactly an interruption because I hadn’t been saying anything else. If I was lucky, we’d be able to pass the time until the ceremony just saying each other’s names back and forth in tones of increasing concern.

Unfortunately, Oliver thwarted that plan by putting his head in his hands and starting to cry in that quiet, desperate way that people did when they were beyond wrecked.

I was going to kill Bridge. I was going to kill Bridge with a spoon. How had she ever thought this was going to help? Unless this was option four, in which case I had literally asked for it.

“Oliver,” I said again, not quite managing to get out of the saying-names space. And since I was kind of already on my knees, I crawled over in what I hoped was consoling rather than flat-out weird way. “It’s going to be okay. I love you and I want to be with you and I’m ready to go through with this.”

Oliver sobbed. “Please don’t.”

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. I’d ruined my boyfriend. I’d ruined my boyfriend on the morning of our fucking wedding. I patted his knee like that was going to be any help at all. “Look, I know I can be flaky sometimes, and I get in my head, but I really am all in. I’m all in on you.”

At last, Oliver looked up. His eyes were red and swollen—he apparently hadn’t slept any better than I had. Which was weird when you set it against his wedding suit, which was formal to the point of vintage and immaculate in ways that neither of us seemed to be feeling right now. “I mean it, Lucien. I need you to stop.”

“But I’m trying to tell you that it’s all right. That whatever happens we—”