The air in the penthouse consultation room was thin, stolen by the ghost sitting across the table.
He wore a Tom Ford suit the color of a stormy sea, but all I could see was the worn, pillowed college sweatshirt he’d had on the night he broke my life in two.
Marcus Thorne. My Marcus.
Except he wasn’t my Marcus anymore. He was the groom.
“Ava,” he said, his voice a low, familiar hum that vibrated straight through my sternum, thawing memories I’d spent eight years burying in permafrost. “I had no idea Chloe had hired you. This is…”
“A surprise,” I finished for him, my voice impressively steady. My fingers, hidden beneath the polished mahogany, were clenched so tightly my knuckles ached.
My company, Perfectly Planned, was on the cover of *Bridal Bests* this month. This meeting—the infamous Thorne-Wexler wedding—was supposed to be my victory lap, the final jewel in my professional crown.
Instead, it was an ambush.
Seated beside Marcus, a viper in a crisp white Vera Wang pantsuit, was the bride. Chloe Wexler tapped a blood-red fingernail against her porcelain teacup. The *tink-tink-tink* was the only sound in the room, a perfect, maddening counter-rhythm to the jackhammer in my chest.
“Well, I did,” Chloe said, her voice as smooth and cold as the marble floor. “I was told you were the best. The most organized. The most… meticulous. ”
Each word was a tiny, sharp dart. She knew. Of course she knew. This wasn’t an oversight; it was a power play. A test.
“Is this going to be a problem, Ms. Morgan?”
The entire love triangle, laid bare in under thirty seconds.
The man who shattered my heart because my ambition was too much for him.
The woman he was marrying, who clearly saw that same ambition as a tool to be wielded.
And me, the architect of my own meticulously structured hell, clutching a three-inch binder full of color-coded tabs for a wedding that felt like a funeral. My funeral.
“No,” I said, my professional mask clicking into place. It was a mask I had spent a fortune on, figuratively and literally. It was flawless. “It won’t be a problem at all. Congratulations on your engagement, Marcus. ”
Marcus offered a weak, charming smile, the one that used to make me forget my own name. “Thanks, Ava. It’s… it’s really good to see you. You look incredible. ”
“She looks expensive, darling,” Chloe cut in, not even looking at me. She was examining her own reflection in the back of a silver spoon. “Which brings me to the venue. I’ve decided I want the reception at the Met. In the Temple of Dendur. ”
My autopilot kicked in, a relief. “The Temple of Dendur is a magnificent space, but it’s famously difficult to book. The museum’s board—”
“Will be handled,” she dismissed. “I also require a flock of doves to be released the moment the vows are exchanged. Pure white. And I’ll know if they’re just pigeons you’ve painted, so don’t even try. “
This was my life. Arguing ornithology with a woman who was marrying the man I still measured every other man against.
“Doves are notoriously difficult to train for a specific ‘moment,’ Chloe,” I said, my voice patient. “And the museum has strict policies on live animals. “
“Then *un*-strict them,” she said with a shrug. “That’s why I hired you. To handle the impossible. “
Marcus shifted uncomfortably. “Chloe, darling, let’s hear her out. Ava’s the best for a reason. I’m sorry, Ava,” he said, turning those apologetic, sea-blue eyes on me. “For. . . well, for how things ended. I never meant to—”
Before I could formulate a response that wouldn’t involve hurling the floral centerpiece at his head, the door swung open.