The courtyard was a battlefield of beauty. Long tables dressed in cream linen stood in neat rows, their surfaces crowded with glass vases and towering floral arrangements still being tweaked and adjusted. A team of coordinators in headset microphones moved between the chaos with clipboards, while a young man on a ladder near the dance floor struggled to hang a garland of eucalyptus above the DJ booth.

Below them, the courtyard was a blur of champagne silk and bare feet. Ellie Dodd, Y/n's older sister, stood near the fountain with a garment bag slung over one shoulder, deep in conversation with Emily Miller, both of them gesturing animatedly about something that made Emily throw her head back in laughter. A few feet away, two little whirlwinds—Lily and Isla, the flower girls—chased each other between the round tables, their laughter ringing out like bells under the warm sky.

Up on the balcony, the bride herself leaned against the balustrade, her dark hair already swept into an elegant updo for tomorrow, a phone pressed to her ear. Her voice was soft but bright, the kind of voice that made everyone around her feel like they were part of the joke.

The wedding was tomorrow. But today, the villa hummed with a frantic, beautiful energy—and somewhere in the middle of it all, a pair of brown eyes, a younger sister, stood barefoot on the cool stone of the courtyard, watching it all unfold.