By late afternoon, the initial storm had begun to settle. Mary had departed the Kingsley estate armed with a comprehensive media strategy designed to flip the viral trend into a charming romantic narrative. My father walked over to the home bar and poured me a generous measure of top-shelf whiskey.
"Drink up, son," he said, sliding the crystal glass across the dark marble counter. "So, we're locking in a three-week timeline for the wedding ceremony? Are you truly prepared to become a married man?"
I swirled the amber liquid in my glass, letting out a long sigh. "I honestly don't know, Dad. One minute I'm standing on a filthy street curb eating a greasy burger, and the next, I'm fast-tracking a wedding to a woman who openly thinks my expensive cologne is suffocating and my suits look ridi
