The cavernous ballroom of The Astoria felt different in the harsh light of day.
Last night, in the smoky haze of the bar, everything had been muted, softened at the edges.
Here, under the glare of the recessed lighting and the unforgiving morning sun, every flaw was exposed.
Including, it seemed, my own.
My head throbbed in a painful rhythm that matched the click of my heels on the polished marble floor.
A clipboard, my usual shield of professionalism, felt flimsy and useless in my hands. I’d triple-checked the floral arrangements, confirmed the revised seating chart, and coordinated with the caterer, all on autopilot.
My body went through the motions of being **Ava Morgan**, meticulous and unflappable wedding planner, while my mind was a maelstrom of guilt, fear, and the ghost of Rhys’s lips on mine.
*I’m falling for you. *
His words echoed in the empty space where my composure used to be.
And my answer, a desperate, soul-searing kiss, had been seen.
The bridal party was late.
The rehearsal was scheduled to start in ten minutes, and only Marcus and Rhys were here, standing by the altar space, speaking in low, serious tones.
Rhys caught my eye, his expression a complicated mix of concern and the same raw yearning I felt churning in my gut.
He took a half-step toward me, but I gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of my head. Not here. Not now. My stomach twisted itself into a tighter knot.
Then, the doors to the ballroom swung open.
Chloe arrived, not in a flurry of bridal excitement, but with the cold, deliberate calm of a gathering storm. Jessica and Lauren, the other bridesmaid from last night, flanked her like sentinels.
Chloe’s smile was a slash of crimson lipstick that didn’t reach her eyes.
Her gaze swept the room, cataloging the lilies, the draped silks, the placement of the string quartet’s chairs, before finally landing on me.
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.