Chapter 1 #2
Then another flash, even worse. His hand wrapped around my throat, his cock buried so deep I can’t think, and that low, obscene promise against my skin: You feel like you were made to be split open on me.
I tighten my grip on the wheel and force the memory back down where it belongs.
It takes another minute before the trees finally thin and the estate appears ahead of me through the rain. I slow automatically.
Jesus.
The place rises out of the gray like something inherited instead of built.
Massive stone walls. Slate roof. Tall windows throwing warm light over sweeping lawns and white event tents in the distance.
Staff move briskly beneath umbrellas. Black sedans and SUVs line the curved drive like punctuation marks.
Not a venue.
A world.
For one stupid second, I wish I’d had time to steam my blazer properly. Or swap the earrings I threw on because they were the only pair I could find without digging through a drawer I’ve been meaning to organize for three months.
Too late now.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a text from Talia.
You’re there?
I dictate a quick yes at the stop before the gate, then glance at the thick binder she messaged over with all the schedules, floor plans, contingency notes, and color-coded tabs only she would think to label with such aggressive cheerfulness under pressure.
The guard at the gatehouse checks my name against a list, then lifts his hand immediately for me to pass through. Respectful. Efficient. No wasted words.
A little knot tightens low in my stomach.
I drive up the long, curved lane, tires hissing softly over wet gravel, and park beside a row of glossy black vehicles that look permanently detailed. Then I sit there for a beat with the engine off and the rain tapping against the roof. The quiet inside the car feels temporary. Borrowed.
I check my lipstick in the mirror, smooth a hand over the front of my dress, and reach for the binder. On the cover, in clean black lettering, are the names: Camille Laurent and Ethan Sokolov
I stare at the second name for a moment longer than I mean to.
Sokolov.
It does something uneasy to the air in my lungs, though I can’t say why.
Ethan.
Of all the names in all of Manhattan, of course the groom has to share one with my ex. I stare at it a moment longer, thumb resting against the edge of the binder.
That’s probably a bad omen.
Or maybe I’m just tired, under-caffeinated, and driving into a luxury wedding for strangers while my nerves try to entertain themselves.
Still, the name sits oddly in my chest.
Not because Ethan is rare. It isn’t. It’s painfully normal. Familiar in the most irritating way possible. The kind of name that can still carry the shape of someone else’s smirk years after you’ve deleted his number and trained yourself not to look for his face in crowded restaurants.
I shut the binder.
No. Absolutely not.
This Ethan is a groom on a schedule. A client. A line item in a weekend I need to get through with grace, efficiency, and preferably no emotional damage.
I grab my phone, my bag, and the emergency kit I never show up without, then step out into the rain.
The cold catches me first, sharp and damp against my skin, and then the scale of the estate settles over me all at once. The front entrance glows under iron lanterns, stone steps shining dark with rain, the whole place standing there like it knows exactly how impressive it is.
A pair of staff members in black hurry across the front drive carrying garment bags and floral crates. Someone farther off is speaking into a headset with the crisp, exhausted tone of a person already on their third problem of the afternoon.
Good. My people.
I head inside.
The foyer is even more obscene than the exterior promised. Marble floor, sweeping staircase, arrangements of white roses and pale greenery already positioned with the kind of deliberate care that says each stem has probably been discussed at length by at least three expensive adults.
A young man in a black suit near the entry turns the second I step in. “Can I help you?”
“Yes,” I say, shifting the binder against my hip. “Sienna Vale. I’m stepping in for Talia Mercer on coordination.”
His entire posture changes at once. “Of course. We were told to expect you.”
Told to expect me.
That shouldn’t feel ominous, and yet.
He gestures toward the hall to the left.
“Hospitality suite is being staged. Rehearsal setup is on schedule. Catering has already begun final placement in the dining room. Ms. Laurent’s assistant has asked twice whether the candles are the exact correct ivory, so I assume things are proceeding normally. ”
I smile despite myself. “A very comforting benchmark. Thank you.”
He almost smiles back, then catches himself and glances at the binder in my arms. “Do you need someone to walk you through current placements?”
“Yes, please.”
A woman with a sleek bun and a discreet earpiece appears from somewhere to my right, all competence and speed. “I can take over.”
Perfect.
She introduces herself as Nadine, head of house staff, and within thirty seconds we’re moving through the first-floor rooms while she updates me in quick, precise bursts.
Cocktail hour has been shifted fifteen minutes later because of the weather.
The string quartet arrived early.
The florist is brilliant but temperamental.
The bride’s mother is not to be offered sparkling water in stemless glasses because she thinks they look cheap.
There’s a backup seating chart in the study.
The bride changed the signature cocktail names twice and may change them again.
I nod, absorb, ask the right questions. This part is easy. Not the workload. The performance of ease.
By the time we reach the main dining room, I’m already slotting myself into the machinery of the weekend, mentally rearranging timelines, checking pressure points, calculating where the trouble is likely to come from first.
Round tables dressed in linen and candlelight glow softly beneath crystal chandeliers. Staff move around them in efficient silence, adjusting place cards, polishing glassware, aligning chairs to a degree of precision no guest will consciously notice and every guest will subconsciously expect.
“It looks beautiful,” I say.
Nadine inclines her head. “Thank you.”
I set the binder down on an empty service station and flip it open, checking the latest version of the seating layout against the room in front of me.
“Bride and groom table stays centered here?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“And family placement?”
She points. “Immediate family there. Extended there. Bride’s cousins requested to be moved farther from the bar, though from what I understand, they are the ones who emptied it at the engagement party.”
I glance up. “That tracks.”
This time she does smile, briefly.
I make a note, then another. My pulse has mostly evened out now. The room is running, the staff are competent, and if the universe is feeling merciful, all I need to do is keep wealthy people from melting down in decorative clothing until Sunday.
I’m bent over the binder, scanning the vendor arrival times, when a voice cuts through the room from behind me.
“Well. What do we have here?”
Male. Amused. Taunting in a way that raises the hairs on the back of my neck before I even turn around.
I know that tone. God, I know that tone.
My hand stills on the page. For one stupid, suspended second, I just stare at the neat black lines of the schedule without seeing any of them.
Then I straighten slowly and turn.
And there he is.
Ethan.
My ex.