Zara's POV
The bride's scream cuts through the ballroom like a knife.
"I SAID I WANTED WHITE ROSES, NOT CREAM!"
I don't flinch. I've heard worse. Way worse. I smooth down my black dress and walk toward the bridal suite with my professional smile locked in place—the one that hides everything real.
"Miss Kingsley, please, she won't listen to anyone but you," the bridesmaid whispers, her eyes wide with panic.
Of course she won't. They never do.
I push open the door to find Bridezilla 47 (yes, I count them) throwing cream-colored roses at her mother. Her face is red, mascara running, twenty thousand dollars' worth of wedding dress bunched in her fists.
"Those roses are RUINED! My wedding is RUINED!"
"Rachel," I say calmly, catching a flying rose before it hits me. "Look at me."
She stops mid-tantrum. Everyone always does when I use that voice. The voice that says I've seen everything and survived it all.
"The roses are white. The lighting in this room makes them look cream. When you walk down that aisle in fifteen minutes, they'll be perfect. Trust me."
Rachel's lip trembles. "You promise?"
"I promise. Now let's fix your makeup before your groom sees you looking like a raccoon."
Ten minutes later, Rachel is glowing, the roses look perfect under the ballroom lights, and I'm hiding behind a marble pillar watching another woman get her happily ever after.
The music starts. Everyone stands. Rachel walks down the aisle toward her groom, and he cries when he sees her. Real tears. Happy ones.
My chest aches.
This is the twentieth wedding I've planned this year. Twenty perfect moments. Twenty happy couples. Twenty times I've sold the dream of forever.
And I don't believe in any of it.
"You may kiss the bride!"
Everyone cheers. I clap along, smile plastered on my face. Inside, I'm hollow. Empty. Like someone scooped out all the soft parts of me three years ago and left just the shell.
The reception is flawless. The cake doesn't fall. The drunk uncle doesn't fight anyone. The speeches are sweet. I do my job perfectly because that's all I have left—being perfect at planning other people's happiness.
"Miss Kingsley!" Rachel grabs my hands as she's leaving for her honeymoon. "Thank you so much! You made my dreams come true!"
"That's what I do," I say, and my smile doesn't waver even though something inside me cracks a little more.
By the time I get home, it's past midnight. My apartment is small, quiet, and empty except for me. I kick off my heels and they land with a thud that echoes too loud in the silence.
I should eat. I should sleep. I should do anything except what I'm about to do.
But my feet carry me to my bedroom anyway. To the nightstand. To the drawer I keep locked.
My hands shake as I pull out the old photo hidden at the bottom, buried under paperwork and dead batteries and things I don't want to remember.
It's me and Marcus. Three years ago. The day he proposed.
I'm wearing a sundress, laughing, my head thrown back in pure joy. He's looking at me like I'm the only person in the world. The ring on my finger catches the sunlight.
I thought I knew what love looked like. I thought I had it.
I was so stupid.
"Why do I still keep this?" I whisper to the empty room.
Because you're weak, a voice in my head answers. The same voice that's been there since my wedding day. Since I walked into that room and saw—
No. I'm not thinking about that tonight.
I walk to the kitchen and turn on the sink. The water runs cold over my fingers. I hold the photo over the drain, my hand trembling.
I've done this before. Twelve times, actually. Held this photo over fire, over water, over the trash. But I always put it back in the drawer. Always convinced myself I needed to keep it as a reminder. A warning.
But reminders only work if you learn the lesson. And I'm still stuck three years in the past, planning weddings I don't believe in, pretending I'm fine when I'm shattered.
"I'm done," I say out loud. My voice is stronger now. "I'm done being that weak girl who thought love was real."
I grab the matches from the junk drawer. Strike one. The flame flares to life, bright orange in my dark kitchen.
I touch it to the corner of the photo.
Marcus's face burns first. Then mine. The paper curls and blackens, and I watch three years of grief turn to ash in my kitchen sink. The smoke alarm doesn't go off. The world doesn't end.
I'm still standing.
"Tomorrow," I whisper, washing the ashes down the drain, "I'm going to be different. Stronger. I'm going to stop hiding behind other people's happiness."
The words feel like a promise. Like maybe, finally, I can move forward.
I'm about to turn off the light when my phone rings.
At 12:47 AM.
Nobody calls this late unless it's an emergency. My heart jumps into my throat as I grab my phone from the counter.
Unknown Number.
I almost don't answer. But wedding planners can't ignore late-night calls—could be a vendor emergency, a venue fire, a bride in crisis.
"Hello?"
"Zara Kingsley?" The voice is female, professional, and wide awake despite the hour.
"Yes, this is she. Who's calling?"
"My name is Patricia Chen. I'm the personal assistant to Sienna Vale."
My brain takes a second to process that name. Sienna Vale. THE Sienna Vale. Oscar-winning actress. Currently dating Dante Morelli, the famous Italian film director. Their relationship is all over social media—they're like modern royalty.
"I... okay?" My voice comes out confused.
"Miss Vale and Mr. Morelli are getting married."
My heart stops. Then starts again, pounding hard.
"They want the best wedding planner in Manhattan. Your name came up first. They'd like to meet with you tomorrow morning. 9 AM. Their penthouse. This is a five million dollar contract."
Five. Million. Dollars.
I can't breathe. This is the opportunity of a lifetime. The kind of wedding that would put my company on the map forever. No more struggling. No more worrying about Marcus's old rumors. No more late-night panic about whether I can make next month's rent.
"Miss Kingsley? Are you there?"
"Yes! Yes, I'm here. 9 AM tomorrow. I'll be there. Thank you so much—"
"There's one condition," Patricia interrupts. Her voice changes, and I hear the warning in it. "They're also hiring a prenup attorney. His name is Ethan Cross. They want both of you working together closely on every aspect of the wedding and the marriage contract. Is that acceptable?"
Ethan Cross. The name sounds familiar but I can't place it.
"Of course," I say quickly. "Whatever they need. I'm a team player."
"Wonderful. I'll email you the address. Don't be late. Mr. Cross is... particular about punctuality."
She hangs up.
I stand in my kitchen, phone pressed to my chest, heart racing so fast I feel dizzy.
Five million dollars. A celebrity wedding. My career saved. Everything I've worked for since the disaster three years ago—validated. Proven. Real.
I should be happy. Excited. Jumping up and down.
Instead, something cold settles in my stomach.
Why would a couple hire both a wedding planner AND a divorce lawyer at the same time?
I grab my laptop and google "Ethan Cross attorney."
The search results load.
My blood turns to ice.
ETHAN CROSS: Manhattan's Most Ruthless Divorce Attorney. Known for destroying marriages and crushing romantic delusions. His motto: "Love is temporary. Contracts are forever."
There's a photo. He's gorgeous in a cold, dangerous way—sharp jaw, dark hair, gray eyes that look like they could cut through steel. He's standing in front of a courthouse, expressionless, while behind him a woman sobs into her hands.
The caption reads: "Cross wins again, leaving another marriage in ruins."
My hands shake as I read article after article. He specializes in high-profile divorces. He's never lost a case. He's famous for making people sign prenups so brutal they basically plan the divorce before the wedding even happens.
And I have to work with him. Closely. On the biggest wedding of my career.
The wedding planner who believes in love.
And the lawyer who destroys it.
"What have I just agreed to?" I whisper.
My phone buzzes. An email from Patricia with the penthouse address and one more line:
"P.S. - Mr. Cross has already reviewed your background. He knows about your... previous wedding incident. He's looking forward to working with you."
The room spins.
He knows. He knows about Marcus. About Vanessa. About the worst day of my life.
And he's "looking forward" to working with me?
This isn't an opportunity.
This is a trap.