The sound that ripped through the perfumed air of the bridal suite was not one of joyful celebration. It was the sharp, guttural tear of stressed fabric giving way, a sound followed by a gasp and then a mortifying silence.
Chloe Jones didn’t even need to turn around. She knew that sound.
It was the official anthem of wedding-day disasters.
“Oh no,” whispered Laura, the Maid of Honor, her voice trembling. “Oh, God, no.”
The bride, Jessica, spun around from her position in front of the ornate gilt mirror. Her face, a masterpiece of contoured foundation and professionally applied calm, began to crumble.
“What? What is it? Laura, what did you do?”
Chloe stepped forward, her movements a study in practiced serenity. “Alright, let’s not panic.
Nobody did anything. Let’s just see what we’re working with.”
She reached the epicenter of the crisis. Laura stood frozen, her back to the room, her hands clutching at the bodice of her lavender satin gown.
From the base of her shoulder blades down to her waist, the zipper had split, leaving a gaping seam that exposed the entire length of her strapless bra.
Jessica’s carefully constructed composure shattered. “It’s ruined! Her dress is ruined!
The photographer is coming in ten minutes! We’re going to have photos of her walking down the aisle with her back hanging out!
My wedding is ruined!”
Tears began to well, threatening to send streams of black mascara down her cheeks. Laura, catching Jessica’s rising panic, started to sob quietly.
This was Chloe’s arena. She was not just a bridesmaid-for-hire; she was a crisis manager, a therapist, and a miracle worker, all wrapped in a dress that perfectly complemented the bridal party’s color scheme.
“Jessica, look at me,” Chloe said, her voice calm but firm, cutting through the hysteria. “Your wedding is not ruined.
This is a minor textile malfunction, not the apocalypse. Deep breaths.
You remember what we practiced? In through the nose, out through the mouth.”
She placed a gentle hand on Jessica’s shoulder while simultaneously turning Laura to face the mirror, angling her so the bride couldn’t see the damage. To Laura, she murmured, “It’s just a zipper.
We can fix this. Stop crying, you’ll ruin your makeup and then we’ll have two problems.”
The logic, however blunt, seemed to work. Laura’s sobs subsided into sniffles.
Chloe knelt and retrieved her emergency kit from her oversized tote bag—a deceptively elegant leather bag that a fellow professional had once dubbed the “Mary Poppins Bag of Emotional Support.”
Inside, nestled in carefully organized pouches, was everything a wedding party could possibly need: stain remover pens, blister pads, a miniature bottle of champagne, smelling salts, and, most importantly, a comprehensive sewing kit.
“Okay,” she announced, pulling out a needle and a spool of lavender thread that was a near-perfect match. “Laura, hold still.
Jessica, your only job right now is to sip this water and think about how handsome Mark is going to look when he sees you.”
As her fingers moved with swift, practiced efficiency, stitching the seam closed with tiny, invisible stitches, she kept up a steady stream of soothing patter.
She told a funny, self-deprecating story about a wedding where the ring bearer had swapped the real rings with Ring Pops. She complimented the floral arrangements.
She reminded Jessica that in an hour, none of this would matter.
She wasn’t just sewing a dress; she was stitching the entire emotional state of the room back together. This was her true skill.
She managed feelings. She saw the frayed edges of a person’s composure and knew exactly how to reinforce them.
It was a strange, intimate-yet-detached profession, requiring her to become a temporary best friend, a confidante who knew all the wedding-day secrets but would be gone by the last dance.
Fifteen minutes later, Laura’s dress was secure, Jessica’s makeup was untouched, and the photographer was artfully arranging them for pre-ceremony portraits.
No one would ever know the chaos that had just unfolded. Chloe stood slightly to the side, a serene smile fixed on her face, blending into the background.
She caught Jessica’s eye in the mirror, and the bride mouthed a silent, grateful “Thank you.”
Chloe nodded, the professional satisfaction warming her. She’d done her job.
***
Hours later, the party was in full swing. The band was playing a surprisingly good rendition of a Top 40 hit, the dance floor was a swirl of silk and tuxedos, and the air was thick with the scent of expensive wine and buttercream frosting.
Chloe’s duties were officially over. She’d fluffed the train, held the bouquet, given a toast that was the perfect blend of warmth and humor (pieced together from anecdotes Jessica had supplied), and ensured the bride ate at least three scallops.
She slipped away from the main hall, her heels clicking softly on the marble floors. She found a quiet alcove overlooking the manicured gardens, the fairy lights twinkling in the twilight.
She leaned against the cool stone, the professional smile finally sliding from her face, replaced by a weary sigh. It was a good gig, a high-end client who paid on time and didn’t make unreasonable demands.
But it was still a performance. She was selling a fantasy of friendship, and sometimes, at the end of the day, it left her feeling hollow.
Her phone buzzed in her clutch. The screen lit up with a picture of her and her business partner, Dani, from two years ago, grinning in front of their tiny, shared office space.
The name read: Dani.
Chloe’s stomach tightened. She took a deep breath and answered. “Hey. It went great.
The bride is happy, the mother of the bride is tipsy, and the dress is still in one piece. I just sent the final invoice.”
“Awesome! Knew you’d kill it,” Dani’s voice was bright, energetic, and always sounded like she was halfway through a triple-shot espresso. “Listen, I’ve got incredible news. I landed the Henderson bachelorette party.”
Chloe frowned. “The Henderson… as in, the hotel heiress?
I thought she went with that big event-planning firm downtown.”
“She did! For the wedding,” Dani said, a triumphant note in her voice.
“But for the bachelorette, she wants something… wilder. More fun.
And she’s willing to pay for it. A lot.”
A sense of dread, cold and familiar, began to creep up Chloe’s spine. “Dani, what did you promise her?”
“I promised her the best night of her life! A full weekend package at a private villa, champagne on tap, private chefs, the works… and the grand finale she requested.”
Chloe closed her eyes. “Don’t say it.”
“The Unicorn Package!” Dani squealed, completely missing Chloe’s tone.
“Two of our best guys. She specifically asked for the fire-breathing routine.
Chloe, this one gig could bankroll us for the next six months!”
Chloe’s vision for The Perfect Plus-One had been clear from the start: a boutique service providing discreet, elegant support for women on their most important days.
They were professional companions, confidence-boosters, and logistical wizards. It was a business built on poise and emotional intelligence.
Dani’s “Unicorn Package” was the polar opposite. It involved male strippers.
Specifically, a troupe Dani had found called “The Mythical Stallions.”
“Dani, we’ve talked about this,” Chloe said, her voice low and tight. “That’s not our brand.
We provide emotional support, not oiled-up abs. It cheapens everything we’ve built.”
“Oh, come on, Chloe, don’t be such a prude! It’s what the market wants! It’s a cash cow,” Dani argued, her voice losing its cheerful edge.
“Our brand is making money. Emotional support doesn’t pay the rent for the new office space I had to sign for, by the way. Abs do.”
The jab landed. They were growing, but their overhead was growing faster.
Chloe handled the clients, the “talent” side of the business, while Dani handled the books and the aggressive marketing. Lately, that marketing had veered into territory that made Chloe deeply uncomfortable.
“It’s a slippery slope, Dani. We start with bachelorette parties, then what?
We’ll be hiring out guys as ‘Bad Decision Buddies’ for divorce parties. Our mission was to elevate the idea of female companionship, to make it something empowering.”
“Our mission was to start a business and not go broke!” Dani shot back, her frustration palpable through the phone.
“I’m tired of scraping by, taking on these high-stress, low-margin bridesmaid gigs. The money is in the party scene.
It’s quick, it’s easy, and the clients don’t have emotional breakdowns over a zipper.”
The words stung, a direct dismissal of the skill and effort Chloe had just poured into her work. “What I do is not low-margin. It’s the foundation of our reputation.”
“Was,” Dani corrected. “The future is glitter and G-strings, Chloe. And if you can’t see that, you’re going to run this business into the ground with your high-minded ideals.”
A cold silence stretched between them. Chloe stared out at the wedding reception, at the laughing couples and the genuine connections, a world away from the conversation she was having.
This business was her baby, born from her own lonely experience as a perpetual plus-one. She had poured her heart into it, into the idea that you could professionalize kindness.
And Dani was trying to twist it into a cheap commodity.
“I can’t do it, Dani,” she said finally, her voice resolute. “I will not have The Perfect Plus-One associated with male strippers.”
Dani sighed, a long, dramatic exhalation.
“Fine. You know, our partnership agreement has a buyout clause for a reason.
If we can’t agree on the fundamental direction of the company…”
She let the sentence hang in the air, a perfectly crafted threat. The thought hit Chloe with the force of a physical blow.
A buyout. It was the only way.
The only way to save the business from becoming something she loathed. The only way to protect her vision.
“How much?” Chloe asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“To buy me out completely? My half of the valuation, plus a premium for future earnings…” Chloe could hear her tapping on a calculator.
“Let’s just say you’d need to come up with fifty thousand dollars. Clean.”
Fifty thousand dollars. The number seemed to suck the air from her lungs.
It might as well have been a million. She had a few thousand in savings, enough to cover her rent for three months if she lived on ramen noodles.
“I’ll need some time,” Chloe said, trying to keep her voice from shaking.
“The Henderson party is in three weeks,” Dani said coolly. “The deposit is non-refundable.
So you have until then to either get on board or get the money. Your choice.”
The line went dead.
Chloe stood motionless, the phone still pressed to her ear. Fifty thousand dollars in three weeks. It was impossible.
She watched as the bride and groom shared a kiss under the glittering lights, the picture of effortless joy. From here, their life looked so perfect, so simple.
But Chloe knew better. She knew that just beneath the surface of every perfect picture, there was a frantic, desperate scramble.
And she was in the middle of her own.