If the Charleston Kennedys were responsible for the absurdly lavish bachelor trip, the Nilsen family was determined to match them—if not surpass them—with the wedding itself. Guy’s father was one of the wealthier men in Europe, a pharmaceutical billionaire from Norway who frequented the kind of conferences that could easily double as Illuminati gatherings. Like Guy, he was tall, fit, blond, and perfectly stoic, presiding over his son’s wedding with the unamused intensity of a high school principal. They had shut down the entire hotel for the long weekend, turning the most luxurious beachfront resort on the island into their own private playground.

Everyone had been instructed to wear formal white to the rehearsal dinner, making the hundred or so guests milling around the opulent cliffside terrace appear distinctly cultish. And as with any celebration of this caliber, there were extravagant canapés, flutes of fine champagne, a tasteful jazz band in tuxedo jackets, and—apparently—a roving waiter passing out bumps of caviar.

Alex had packed two white dresses for the occasion, allowing her to make a game-time decision on what to wear. One was a minimalist, Carolyn Bessette-esque silk number that would make her fit in seamlessly with this group, and the other was a strapless dress she had purchased from the bridal section of a favorite Philly boutique. It looked molded to her body, structured in the bodice and scooped in the neckline, floor-length and flowing from the waist down. She had opted for the latter, dusting her deeply tanned body with a golden highlight, piling her dark curls high with a thin gold headband placed at the crown of her head.

“Don’t you just look fabulous,” a passing woman remarked in her subtle shift dress, probably from Brunello Cucinelli or The Row.

“Thanks,” Alex replied, noting the minor condescension and pushing through it like a thin gauze curtain. “You, too.”

As she sipped her champagne toward the far end of the ornately tiled terrace where Bee had left her, Paul sauntered over. He was in the white embroidered tunic-and-pants set he had custom made on his last trip to Sri Lanka, punctuated by his royal blue silk loafers.

“Something blue.” Alex smiled, opening her arm for him to slip into a side hug.

“And I borrowed the underwear.”

“Of course you did. Are you having fun?” She squeezed his shoulder as she asked.

“I am,” he said rather quietly, grabbing a flute from a passing server’s tray. “Are you feeling better?”

“I am,” she said, and she meant it.

“Good,” he said, squeezing her in return. “Oh, hey, guys.”

Paul released Alex from his grasp, placing a hand at the small of her back and turning her slightly to face his parents.