Emma stood at the altar, her hands trembling so badly she had to grip her bouquet tight to steady herself. Her dress was torn—not completely ruined, but enough that she felt the fabric pull every time she moved, a constant reminder of what had just happened. A flaw. A warning. Her chest burned with overwhelming embarrassment and confusion. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered to Vincent, her voice tight and shaky. “I don’t know why he did that—”
“It’s fine,” Vincent cut her off quickly, far too quickly. He leaned in close, lowering his voice to a quiet murmur. “It’s just a dress. No one cares. We’re here now, that’s all that matters.” Then his tone turned softer, sharp and pointed: “I did warn you though. This was always a huge risk.” The smile he gave her was fake and practiced, polite but cold, never reaching his eyes. Emma nodded, swallowing back the words she wanted to say, forcing herself to breathe and stay calm.
Rex never does anything without a reason, she told herself. He wasn’t a young, untrained puppy. He was a seasoned, disciplined K9. He never panicked. He always assessed every situation first. So what had he seen? She tried to replay the moments in her head—the gift table, Rex’s frantic barking, his urgent determination—but her thoughts landed on something far more unsettling: Vincent’s hands. They were clasped tight in front of him, his knuckles white with tension.
