Chapter 4 begins with the protagonist returning to his bedroom, where the aftermath of the previous night has been erased, leaving a space that is pristine and orderly. The scent of fresh linen lingers in the air, a stark contrast to the disarray he had left behind. It’s clear that a housekeeper has meticulously restored order—his suitcase is neatly unpacked, his bathroom, once cluttered with damp towels and remnants of hasty grooming, is now spotless. Even the cedar closet, where daddy longlegs had once lurked, is now cleared, making the room feel less suffocating. As he moves through the space, he feels a temporary sense of relief, appreciating the illusion of control, however fleeting it may be. His mind, however, is far from at ease, weighed down by the growing unease about the events surrounding the wedding.

Determined to focus on the ceremony ahead, he methodically prepares his attire, extracting his hand-tailored, pearl-gray tuxedo from Italy. The fabric is smooth beneath his fingers, and the craftsmanship is evident in the perfect stitching and structured fit. He unpacks a crisp white dress shirt, pairing it with sleek black onyx studs that gleam under the soft light. There’s a moment of satisfaction as he ties a proper bow tie, refusing to settle for the pre-tied option included in his accessory kit. Yet, as he adjusts his reflection in the mirror, he can’t shake the feeling that his polished appearance masks a deeper discomfort. The tuxedo is flawless, but he feels like an imposter wearing it, standing on the edge of something irreversible.

His phone vibrates on the dresser, breaking his thoughts, and he glances at the screen to see Vicky’s name flashing. She’s concerned, her voice edged with worry, and she doesn’t bother with small talk, instead getting straight to the point—she’s heard about what happened the night before. The conversation takes an uneasy turn as Frank hesitates before responding, carefully choosing his words. He mentions an incident involving a troubled girl and the discovery of drugs in her cottage, though he dances around the details. There’s also the matter of Dawn Taggart, which he deliberately downplays, dismissing it as a simple misunderstanding. Vicky, unconvinced, questions whether he’s truly alright, her tone betraying the fact that she doesn’t buy into his reassurances.

Frank senses her skepticism, but he isn’t prepared to unravel the tangled web of complications he’s caught in—not over the phone, not now. He deflects, changing the subject to the wedding and emphasizing that the ceremony is about to begin. Vicky presses him to promise he’ll call her once he’s home, and though he agrees, there’s a part of him that doubts whether he actually will. He can tell she’s not satisfied, but the conversation ends with an air of unfinished business. As he sets the phone down, he lets out a breath, wishing for just a moment of peace before stepping into the whirlwind of the wedding day.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a folded sheet of yellow-lined paper, the words of his wedding toast carefully written in neat handwriting. He smooths it against his palm, reading through the lines that he has practiced, the words that are meant to be heartfelt and genuine. But as he stands there, tuxedo perfect, speech prepared, an unsettling truth settles in—he doesn’t believe in what he’s about to say. The praise, the sentiments, the reflections on love and family, all feel empty, forced. He wonders if anyone will notice, if anyone will hear the falsehood laced beneath the carefully curated words. The thought lingers as he places the paper back into his pocket, a weight pressing against his chest, heavier than the tuxedo, heavier than the expectations he is about to fulfill.