Chapter 19
CAFFEINATED ELVES
AMIRA
NEW YEAR’S EVE
I’m up before the sun.
It’s 6:02 a.m. and butterflies are wreaking havoc in my stomach.
Today is the Miller family New Year’s Eve party.
The culmination of weeks of planning, five days of meticulous execution, and a lifetime’s worth of pressure—not because I need to impress anyone, but I still want this to be perfect for Nadine, the guests, and, whether I admit it aloud or not, for Henson.
I stretch and sit up slowly, already running through my mental to-do list before my feet even hit the floor.
Florals. Lighting check. Catering schedule. Final guest count. AV setup. Fireworks confirmation.
After a quick shower and a strong cup of coffee, I slide into my comfiest black trousers, a tucked-in knit top, and my wool coat.
Then I gather my clipboard, charger, backup batteries, and the tiny emergency kit I always carry—safety pins, lint roller, Band-Aids, mini sewing kit, stain remover pen. I don’t go anywhere without it.
My phone buzzes just as I’m lacing up my boots.
Mom: Happy New Year’s Eve, habibti. Good luck today. Kiss in the new year with grace, but also make sure the food is hot. People always remember the food.
My chest blooms with affection.
Me: Promise the food will be hot. Love you. Kiss Baba for me.
With that, I head out the door.
The rest of the day is a whirlwind of motion.
At 7:30 a.m., I meet Kennedy in the house’s main hall, which is surrounded by the garden terrace. She’s already unloading boxes of frosted florals and crystal vases, her assistant flitting behind her like a shadow.
“Floral arch will go up by noon,” she says, handing me a coffee. “And I know the suspended greenery above the dance floor was supposed to be finished by now, but it is almost done. Don’t panic.”
“Panic? I don’t panic.” I smirk. “I thrive under pressure.”
At 8:45, Jules calls to confirm that the custom champagne macarons have arrived from Boston. I breathe a prayer of thanks and tell him I’ll be in for a walkthrough by ten.
Between that, fielding texts from the lighting crew, triple-checking the table linen order, confirming the fireworks display permit—Brianna will love me—I manage to snag ten minutes to stuff half a bagel into my mouth while walking through the garden with a clipboard in one hand and my phone glued to my ear.
It’s chaos. Bliss. The exact kind of controlled madness I live for.
And still, through the noise and movement and constant motion, my thoughts turn to Henson.
The man who, in the past few days since I said yes to him, has been almost too perfect. It’s surreal.
Every spare moment we’ve had, we’ve spent together—laughing over late-night tea, curled up on the cottage couch, wrapped around each other in a tangle of limbs.
He checks in on me like I’m precious. He kisses me like he means it. He looks at me like I’m something more than I’ve believed I am all these years.
I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. I worry I’m taking up too much of his time, that he needs space, that he’ll pull back once we return to the real world. Because soon, we’ll be back in Seattle. Back to work and reality. Back to not spending every waking moment in this bubble.
I hate how much I already miss it.
At 1:00 p.m., I check on the staff meal setup and discover that someone forgot to account for vegetarian options. A quick call to Jules fixes it, and I mentally remind myself to tip that man extra.
By three-thirty, the venue is transformed. Twinkling lights have been draped across every beam, the florals are decadent without being gaudy, and the heaters in the garden are up and running for the outdoor portion of the night.
By six o’clock, the first wave of guests will arrive, and I’ll be pretending not to obsessively track every passing second.
But for now, I take a moment, stepping outside into the crisp air, breathing in the salt from the nearby ocean breeze.
My phone screen lights up with a new message.
Mr. Billionaire: How’s my girl holding up? Need me to bring coffee? Or rescue you from floral-induced madness?
My thumbs hover over the keyboard, and I realize I’m grinning like a lovesick idiot. The Millers went out for the day to give us space to prepare everything for tonight, and I’m so excited for them to see it all later. Especially Henson.
Me: Your girl is alive. Barely. Kennedy is a floral wizard. Jules saved the vegetarian options. I haven’t cried yet. So I think I’m crushing it.
Mr. Billionaire: Didn’t doubt you for a second, but I’m still ready to play hero if needed. Just say the word.
Me: Tempting. But you might get trampled if you show up too early. The crew is still running around like caffeinated elves.
Mr. Billionaire: That sounds like a challenge.
Me: It’s not. Stay away. For your own safety. What’s your ETA?
Mr. Billionaire: Fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty if Worth decides to swerve for a latte.
Me: Don’t sneak through the back. You’re not allowed to see the grand hall until it’s finished. No peeking.
Mr. Billionaire: Fine. But only if I get to see you first.
My heart skips, and I bite my lip.
Me: You will.
By the time the last light has been adjusted and the final table fluffed, it’s just after four.
The house is stunning.
The suspended greenery over the dance floor glimmers with soft fairy lights, the glassware sparkles like it was kissed by winter itself, and the coastal breeze sweeping through the terrace gives everything an ethereal edge. It’s elegant. Romantic. Warm.
It’s everything I wanted it to be.
The caterers are prepping in the back. The florals are picture-perfect. The string quartet has started their soundcheck. I even catch a glimpse of the champagne tower—flawless.
I press a hand to my chest and breathe.
We did it.
I head back to the cottage to get ready.
The air outside bites, but it feels good on my flushed skin. The walk gives me a moment to come down from the high of the day, snow crunching underfoot, my boots tracing the familiar path back through the trees.
A warm shower washes away the last few hours of stress, and by the time I step out, steam curls in the air like fog, and my body feels brand new.
By five-thirty, I’m slipping into a floor-length navy gown with a deep V and an open back.
I curl my hair, pin part of it back, add a soft shimmer to my eyes, and swipe on my boldest deep rose lipstick.
Simple gold earrings. Nude heels.
One last glance in the mirror, and I almost don’t recognize myself.
Not because of the makeup or the dress—but because I look… happy.
There’s this quiet kind of calm under my skin, even with all the nerves buzzing. And I know it’s because of him. Because of Henson.
No matter how often I remind myself that this can’t be real—that it’s too much too soon—I find myself falling anyway.
And I don’t want to stop.
There’s a knock at the door. I pause, hands hovering over my perfume bottle, heart immediately leaping into my throat.
I grab my clutch, smooth my hands down the front of my dress, and try to ignore how fast my heart is beating. Then I walk to the door and open it.
Henson stands on the other side of the threshold, dressed in a perfectly tailored black tux with a crisp white shirt, no tie, and the top two buttons undone, like he didn’t want to commit too much. His hair is effortlessly swept back, and his jaw looks extra sharp in the porch light.
His lips part, and for a full five seconds, he just stares.
“Wow. You’re… shit.”
“I’m… shit?” I laugh softly, leaning against the doorframe. “Speechless, Billionaire baby?”
He blinks once, slow. “You look unreal, Mira. Something out of a dream.”
Heat blooms up my neck. “It’s just a dress.”
“No,” Henson murmurs, stepping forward. “It’s you in the dress.”
His hand lifts slowly to tuck a curl behind my ear, fingers brushing my cheek. Then he gives me a searing kiss, and I feel the breath leave my lungs.
“Are you ready?”
“Yeah.”
We walk side by side along the path toward the house, the sky above us painted in dusky lavender and navy.
Henson doesn’t speak, but his hand brushes gently over mine.
The estate’s grand wooden doors are already propped open, golden light spilling out into the evening, and as we step inside, Henson whistles.
“Holy shit.”
I watch him take it all in—the greenery and glass baubles glowing like stars above the dance floor, the tables dressed in deep midnight blue linens and gold candlelight, the soft classical music playing as guests arrive, champagne already bubbling in flutes across the room.
“You did this?” he says, still looking around, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.
“Well.” I fight back a grin. “With the help of an incredible team. But yeah.”
He turns to me slowly. “You’re magic. You didn’t just plan a party—you built a goddamn dream.”
I swallow hard, heart climbing up into my throat. “Thank you.”
He leans down, and presses a kiss to my temple. “Proud of you, Mira.”
The words hit deeper than I expect, and I have to remind myself that, no matter how perfect this moment feels—it’s still real.
The night unfolds effortlessly.
Still, I don’t stop moving.
I float between tables, check in with the catering staff, give subtle nods to the AV team, and help a tipsy guest find the bathroom. It’s what I do best: blend into the rhythm of the event while making sure no one notices how many fires I’m putting out behind the scenes.
I duck into the hallway for a quiet moment, mentally checking off the dessert delivery and fireworks cue, when movement catches my eye.
An elegant woman enters the hall. A sequined cape is draped on her shoulders over a fitted black dress, hair pinned in soft waves, not a single detail out of place.
It takes me a second to recognize her from the coffee shop where I met up with Jules a few days ago.
The woman walks with confidence toward Nadine, and I watch as they greet each other with a hug and kiss on the cheek. They laugh, and something about her smile makes my stomach twist.