I thought I was being so clever—coming here, destroying things, trying to stop this wedding from happening. It was all my fault. I’ve been too smug. As smug as a cat who’s about to get the cream. But I’m no cat. I’ve been so wrong. I’ve been the mouse this whole time. I should have known.

I went out to the bed and collapsed, phone in hand, watching the numbers. How long did I have to wait?

Many hours, it turned out.

The room service cart visited me twice, and each time I politely thanked the waiter and asked for an update. Both times, I was met with a formal reply that they were still waiting on more information. Both times I couldn’t touch my food that stayed, cooling, and then stinking up my room while I contemplated my next move.

It was 3:28 p.m. when the knock that I had been expecting finally pulled me back to where I was. Still no luck with the numbers. A definite sign.

I took a deep breath. Counted to five. Then I stood up.

“Good afternoon,” I said, answering the door.

“Miss Bloom.” The manager of the hotel accompanied three security officers. They weren’t the police, which made me feel marginally better. I think they were from a private security company, judging from their uniforms. And private security couldn’t make any arrests, right?

“You need to come with us, madam. And please alert me to any valuables you might have stored here, as we will be searching your room again. More thoroughly this time, I’m afraid.”

“That’s fine,” I replied quietly. “I don’t really have any valuables, but there’s about three hundred US dollars in my wallet.”

He gave me a curt nod, and the officers escorted me down the corridor. There were security guards swarming everywhere I looked, as well as in-house guards. The security were in beige and brown, sticking out against the old portraits and colonial interior of the hotel, but the in-house guards were decked out in their postcolonial glory—white knee-length shorts, white knee-high socks, and wide-brimmed white safari hats. It was like stepping into a time capsule whenever I saw them.

I was led away to a conference room on the highest floor of the old wing. The wooden staircase echoed as I climbed it slowly, surely, making my way to where my life was undoubtedly about to be torn to shreds.

The room itself was really quite cheerful, with two large windows overlooking the sparkling Indian Ocean and soft pipe music chirping away in the background. It felt like sacrilege. Things shouldn’t be this bright and happy. Not now. Not when everything was just about to erupt.

I was left alone. I sat down. I looked at the time—3:33 p.m. Finally. Finally, a good sign. I took another deep breath. Everything was going to be okay.

I’ll just tell them the truth. That had to work, right? I’ll tell them the truth and then maybe I could make them understand that it’s all been a mistake.