**Rule #1 of being a wedding planner:** Never, *ever* let the bride see you cry.
I repeated that mantra as I ducked into the empty hotel hallway, gripping my clipboard like a lifeline. The lace of my blush-pink bridesmaid dress itched my thighs, and my heels—stupid, strappy things—had already blistered my ankles. But none of that mattered. Not when my best friend's wedding was unraveling faster than a discount-store veil.
*Deep breath, Lila. You've handled worse.*
Then the universe laughed in my face.
A man rounded the corner—tall, broad-shouldered, and scowling at his phone like it had personally offended him. I sidestepped. He didn't.
Our collision sent my clipboard clattering to the floor, his forearm slamming into my ribs as he grabbed my waist to steady me. The contact burned through the thin fabric of my dress.
"Watch where you're—" His voice cut off as I looked up.
Recognition flared in his icy blue eyes.
*Oh no.*
**Oliver Hart.**
The groom's brother. The guy who'd ghosted me after our *one* disastrous date three years ago. The man whose name I'd cursed every time I had to delete another wedding RSVP addressed to *Mr. and Mrs. Hart*.
His grip tightened. "Lila?"
I wrenched free. "Nope. Hallucination. Keep walking."
His lips—stupidly perfect, even when twisted in annoyance—parted. But I was already snatching my clipboard off the floor, where the seating chart had split into two very symbolic pieces.
*Just my luck.*
Oliver crouched, his tailored suit straining over his shoulders as he picked up a stray paper. "You're Melanie's planner?"
"And maid of honor." I yanked the paper from his hand. "Which means I don't have time for—"
A scream shattered the hallway's silence.
We both froze. That wasn't a *happy* scream. That was a *"someone just saw the groom with his ex"* scream.
Oliver's jaw clenched. "Tell me that wasn't the bride."
I was already sprinting toward the bridal suite, my heels be damned.
He kept pace beside me. "Lila—"
"Don't." I skidded to a stop outside the door, where muffled sobs leaked through the wood. "Whatever you're about to say, save it. This wedding is *hours* from disaster, and the last thing I need is your help."
Oliver's smile was razor-sharp. "Then it's a good thing I'm not offering." He reached past me, shoved the door open, and revealed the scene inside:
—Melanie, mascara streaking down her cheeks, clutching a torn veil.
—The groom, pale as his tux, holding a phone with a *very* incriminating text.
—And a blonde woman in a too-tight cocktail dress, smirking like she'd won.
Oliver sighed. "Goddammit, Ethan."
Melanie's tear-filled eyes locked onto me. "Lila," she whispered. "Fix this."
**And that's when the fire alarm went off.**
*TO BE CONTINUED*