Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Christine
“Blue, if you don’t eat that, I swear I will eat it for you,” Aisha threatens playfully.
“I’m not hungry,” Blue fusses, as expected of a three-year-old, her words slightly tangled, not fully pronounced.
“You said that yesterday, and then you cried in the car because your tummy hurt,” Aisha presses, her voice soft, patient, because of course, Aunty Aisha can never be anything but sweet to her baby Blue.
“I wasn’t crying,” Blue retorts.
“You were wailing, baby,” Aisha teases.
“I don’t wail.”
I roll my eyes, but I don’t turn yet.
I don’t need to because from here, I can hear the look Aisha is giving her from the kitchen, that are-you-serious look she does with one brow slightly raised, lips pressed together like she’s fighting a smile.
I’m halfway into my blouse, one arm in, the other still hanging uselessly as I try to button it without wrinkling it.
The mirror in the living room catches me mid-motion, my hair still loose and makeup only half done, the kind of morning that started ten minutes late and never recovered.
“Blue,” I call out, stepping into my heels and immediately stepping out of them again because I almost twist my ankle, “Eat your breakfast.”
“I am eating it!” She shouts back.
“She’s not eating it,” Aisha mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.
I walk into the kitchen and pause.
Because this… This is my favorite part.
The kitchen, smelling like syrup and something slightly toasted with morning light spilling in through the wide window above the sink, catching on everything it touches: the white cabinets, the soft stainless handles, and the faint mess we didn’t clean up from last night.
A cereal box sits open on the counter, a cup abandoned beside it, a tiny spill of milk already drying into a thin film.
Aisha is standing by the counter, brown curls piled high and already escaping in soft, wild loops around her face. She’s in an oversized white shirt tucked lazily into a pair of soft brown shorts, the fabric loose around her thighs.
Her skin glows in that effortless way she hates being complimented for, and her brown eyes are locked on Blue like she’s in a full negotiation with a tiny, very stubborn CEO.
Blue sits at the table, legs swinging, she's wearing a yellow dress with tiny sunflowers printed all over it, one strap slightly twisted, the hem riding up on one side like she dressed herself and refused help.
Her hair is in two slightly uneven puffs I did myself this morning. One is fuller than the other. She insisted it was fine.
It’s not fine. But she’s smiling.
So I let it go.
“There she is,” Aisha throws, glancing at me. “The woman of the hour.”
“Don’t start,” I mumble, reaching for my coffee like it might save me.
“Oh, I’m starting,” she teases, sliding a plate slightly closer to Blue. “Because today is a big day, and you are already behind schedule.”
“I’m not behind,” I lie, taking a sip.
“You are behind,” she stamps. “And your daughter is refusing to eat, which is not helping your case.”
“I’m eating,” Blue repeats, stabbing her pancake with unnecessary aggression.
“Eat faster,” I tell her, leaning down to kiss the top of her head.
She smells like coconut oil and syrup.
Home.
“You have your meeting today?” Blue asks, looking up at me with those wide, curious, hazel eyes that never miss anything.
“I do.”
“The big one?”
“The very big one.” I smile at her.
“Okay.” She nods, serious now. “I’ll eat.”
“I should’ve just said that.” Aisha snorts.
“Yes,” Blue replies, completely unbothered.
I laugh before I can stop myself, shaking my head as I step back, grabbing my bag from the chair.
For a second, I just stand there watching them.
Aisha is handing Blue juice, Blue talking with her mouth half full, both of them filling the space with noise and life and something I didn’t always have.
This… This is mine. It's not perfect. It's far from quiet. But it's mine.
“I’ll pick her up later,” Aisha calls after me, softer now, catching my eye.
“Thank you.”
“Go,” she adds, waving me off. “Before you start overthinking everything.”
Too late.
But I go anyway.
Miami is already awake when I pull into the main road, sunlight bouncing off glass buildings, the ocean flashing between streets like it’s reminding everyone it’s there.
The air feels different here. Lighter. Like it doesn’t hold onto things the same way.
I grip the steering wheel loosely, letting the rhythm of traffic pull me into something calmer.
It's been three years in this city.
Although, it doesn’t feel like a number. It feels like a lifetime I had to build piece by piece.
There was no immaculate break or perfect ending.
One minute I was living for myself, moving through life like it was mine alone to spend, and the next, I wasn’t.
Everything changed without asking me if I was ready. And the choices that came after… the kind you don’t sit with for too long.
Because you already know what you’ll find if you do.
I didn’t come here with a plan. Just a need to start over. And somehow, I did.
We got the apartment.
I remember standing in front of that building with Aisha, both of us pretending we weren’t nervous, like we hadn’t rehearsed what we were going to say three times in the car.
I had Blue on my hip, barely a few months old then, too small to understand anything but still somehow the center of every decision I was making.
I got the business. It started small. One event. Then another. Birthdays. Intimate dinners. A rushed engagement party that nearly broke me but didn’t.
I learned fast.
How to listen to what people say and what they don’t.
How to take a feeling, a half-formed idea, and turn it into something you can walk into, breathe in, remember.
Lighting that unwinds everything. Flowers that don’t just sit pretty but say something.
Timing that feels effortless, even when it’s anything but.
Then weddings came. Brides who want perfection but don’t know how to ask for it. Families with opinions. Grooms who disappear until the last minute. And me, holding it all together, stitching chaos into something seamless.
And then I watched Blue take her first step. It happened in the middle of everything.
The floor was still damp from where Aisha had just cleaned it, the faint scent of detergent hanging in the air, my laptop open but forgotten on my lap.
Blue had been moving around the room the way she always did then, curious, determined, completely unaware of how small she still was.
She pulled herself up against the couch, tiny fingers gripping the edge, her body swaying like it hadn’t decided if it trusted itself yet.
Then she let go.
I exhale slowly, the thought of her settling into me differently than everything else.
She wasn’t part of the plan either. But she became everything.
And Aisha… God, Aisha. She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t question. Just showed up and stayed. And I didn’t realize how rare that was until I had it.
The light turns green.
I move forward.
Today matters. This client matters. It's high budget, private, and with a stiff timeline.
This is the kind of job that changes things if I get it right.
And I will.
Because I don’t have the luxury of not getting it right.
I arrive at the restaurant, Velvet & Vine. Glass front, black and gold detailing that catches the sunlight just enough to feel intentional, not excessive.
Inside, it’s quieter.
Polished floors, low lighting despite the morning, tables spaced just far enough to feel intimate without being isolated. Fresh flowers sit at every table, not overdone, just enough to remind you someone thought about it.
I’m early.
Of course, I am.
I smooth my plaid skirt as I’m led to the reserved table, setting my folder down, pulling out notes I’ve already memorized but need to see anyway.
I run through it all again: the timing, layout, lighting cues, and floral placements.
A few minutes later, Celine arrives.
She's a supermodel, tall, airy, with blonde hair falling like it’s been styled without trying. Her skin is flawless in a way that doesn’t feel real. She moves like she’s used to being watched and doesn’t care anymore.
“Christine.” She smiles as she approaches, her voice is soft and curated.
“Celine,” I stand, shaking her hand.
Up close, she’s even more striking. Blue eyes, piercing but not cold, her presence balanced between elegance and something slightly restless underneath.
“Have you been here long?” She asks as she settles into the seat across from me, gliding easily into the room.
“Not too long,” I reply, closing my folder halfway but not fully, keeping one foot in work even as we exchange the necessary pleasantries.
She smiles, already scanning the space like she’s measuring it against something in her head.
“I hate being late,” she adds, smoothing a hand over her classic pink dress, a soft, expensive fabric that clings just enough to remind you of the body beneath it. “But everything feels like it’s running away from me this week.”
“That’s normal this close to the wedding,” I offer, smiling with understanding. “We’re just brushing over the details now.”
She exhales, relieved to be handed something light, something that makes sense.
And just like that, we start.
“The floral arch needs to be fuller,” she dives in immediately, flipping through the sketches. “I want it to feel like it’s overflowing, but not messy.”
“Contained abundance,” I nod, already making the adjustment.
“Yes,” she smiles brightly, “I love that.”
I slide the next sheet toward her, turning it slightly so she can see the layout from her angle.
“We’ll layer the florals instead of stacking them. It’ll feel like it’s spilling, but still contained.”
“Good.” She nods, tapping lightly on the page. “I don’t want anything that looks accidental. Everything should feel… intentional.”
“It will,” I assure her, jotting something down. “We’ll also soften the base with greenery so it doesn’t feel too bland.”
She nods, satisfied, already moving on.
“The lighting,” she waves her hand in the air, glancing up briefly at the space around us like she’s trying to imagine it transformed. “I want it warm. I don't want yellow, not too dim. Just… flattering.”
“Golden hour, but toned down,” I respond. “We’ll use layered lighting. Overhead stays minimal, candles and floor lighting do most of the work. It’ll feel intimate without losing visibility.”
“Wow.” Her lips curve. “You get it.”
I do.
That’s why I’m here.
We move through timelines next. Entrance cues. Music transitions. Where she stands. Where he stands. How long everything should last before it starts to feel like too much.
I keep it moving, guiding when needed, adjusting where necessary, keeping everything from slipping into chaos.
But she doesn’t stay with me the whole time.
Her attention drifts. It’s subtle at first. A glance toward the entrance, then back to me.
Then again.
Her fingers pause on the page a second too long before she continues, her smile just slightly thinner now.
“He’s late again,” she mutters, almost to herself.
I don’t react immediately.
“We had a fitting yesterday,” she continues, flipping the page but not really seeing it. “He didn’t show. Didn’t even call.”
I make a small note, giving her space without feeding it too much.
“We can adjust the rehearsal schedule,” I offer smoothly. “Give you more management over the flow so you’re not depending on him for timing.”
She exhales, grateful for the solution, even if it doesn’t fix what’s underneath.
“Thank you,” she swallows, her voice quieter now.
We keep going.
Details. Final confirmations.
Everything falling into place the way it should.
But her eyes keep drifting toward the door.
Again. And again.
Until I finally pause, setting my pen down.
“Are you expecting someone?”
“He says he trusts me with everything,” she breathes out, a small laugh following. “Which sounds romantic until you realize it means he’s just… not here.”
I don’t rush to fill it.
I’ve learned not to.
There was a time I would’ve. Filled the silence too quickly. Offered something soft, something reassuring, something that made people feel better even when it cost me something I couldn’t name then. I used to think every pause needed saving, every crack needed covering.
It doesn’t. Because not everything needs to be fixed. Some things just need to be heard… and left where they land.
So I let it sit.
I let her words breathe in the space between us without trying to reshape them into something easier.
Instead, I slide the final sheet toward her, circling us back into the moment, back into something we can control.
“We’ll keep everything running on schedule regardless,” I offer professionally. “You won’t feel the gaps.”
She nods, but her attention is already drifting again, her eyes flicking toward the entrance before returning to me like she’s trying to stay present and failing just a little.
“I should show you around,” she declares suddenly, pushing her chair back. “So you can see the space properly. I want you to feel it, not just plan it.”
I nod, closing my folder, rising with her.
“Sure.”
She smooths her dress as she stands, that same effortless elegance settling back over her like it never left.
For a second, she looks exactly like what everyone sees when they look at her, composed, in control, untouched by the small cracks she just let slip.
We step away from the table.
She gestures lightly toward the open floor, already starting to talk again about where the reception tables would sit, how she wants the entrance to feel, the kind of energy she wants the room to carry when people walk in.
I follow, listening, mapping everything in my head, translating her vision into something I can build.
We’re just about to start the walkthrough when the door opens.
But it pulls her attention immediately.
“Oh, finally,” she exhales, relief threading through her voice.
I follow her gaze.
And my breath catches.
Standing there like he didn’t walk straight out of a life I buried years ago. Like time didn’t pass. Like I didn’t rebuild everything from the ground up just to make sure I’d never have to see him again.
Daniel.