Chapter Thirty-Three
There is a special kind of exhaustion reserved solely for wedding planners, and I had just reached the platinum, gold-foiled, velvet-lined edition of it.
By the next morning as dawn stretched itself over Langston Estate, Cleo and I had already been up for hours. Actual hours. Long, painful ones.
We were finalising deliveries, confirming call sheets, fussing with the arch florals, fielding questions from vendors who should not have had questions, and retying a frankly disrespectful amount of silk ribbon.
“Why does the most expensive ribbon behave like this?” Cleo groaned as she wrestled with the bow on the chaise arrangement. “It’s like it’s trying to be difficult.”
I made a noise that could have been agreement or impending collapse.
Between yesterday’s revelations, and what happened with Noah… my entire body felt like a violin string tuned one pitch too tight.
Nope. Not thinking about that. Not today. Not when I had a society wedding to construct out of sweat, florals, and the blood sacrifice of my sanity.
Langston Estate had transformed almost magically overnight. What had been a serene, historic vineyard now resembled the set of a high-budget film.
Elegant marquees rose across the lawn like silk-draped cathedrals, their white peaks glinting in the early light.
Cascading white florals spilled from every arch and table, an almost obscene abundance of roses, peonies, and hydrangeas arranged so artfully it felt less like floristry and more like horticultural sorcery.
Trails of greenery looped and curled down table runners, lush and fragrant, like someone had decided to re-create the Hanging Gardens of Babylon purely because it would photograph well.
Satin ribbons fluttered from every chair, canopy, and floral structure, catching the breeze and rippling like silver flames.
Rows of lanterns lined the aisle, polished to a mirror shine, each one holding a floating candle that would glow once the sun began to dip.
Even the Champagne station was ridiculous, several tiers of crystal glass fountains ready to overflow at the slightest touch, an entire wall of imported bottles chilled to perfection.
A string quartet sat beneath the gum trees, their instruments glimmering in the shade as they warmed up, each note floating through the garden with reverent delicacy, the kind of sound that made even the magpies stop warbling for five whole seconds.
Even after years of doing luxury weddings, and after months of seeing the plans and mood boards and design mock-ups, I still found myself standing there thinking:
Holy shit.
I actually did it.
Everywhere I turned, there were people, vendors, staff, stylists, florists, distant relatives I didn’t recognise but who somehow carried the energy of people who knew their caviar.
And then my gaze snagged on Noah.
He was across the lawn speaking with Izzy, muscles broad beneath his expertly cut suit, wavy hair brushed back but still unruly. He was impossibly handsome. Shockingly handsome. And yet he looked heartbreakingly tired.
Our eyes met for half a second.
Something in me melted…
No. No, absolutely not. Focus, Holly.
Feelings were not on today’s schedule.
They were to be placed gently into a tiny emotional Tupperware, the cheap kind from Kmart, and the lid was to be snapped on tight. Preferably with masking tape.
Maybe a padlock.
I pivoted back towards the catering station like a woman fleeing a crime scene.
Right.
Canapé trays. Ceremony layout. The seating symmetry, which absolutely refused to be symmetrical no matter what I did.
These were my priorities.
Not… whatever Noah Langston was doing over there with his devastating jawline.
Do. Not. Look. At. Noah.
I stared so hard at a pile of monogrammed biscuits that I nearly convinced myself they were fascinating.
I gave up and turned, heading back inside the building. The entire bridal suite pulsed with a jovial excited chaos, the kind that buzzed under your skin and made the air feel like it was filled with champagne bubbles.
Caroline stood in the centre of it all, framed by tasteful lighting spilling through the tall arched windows. For a moment, she didn’t look like a Lawyer or the woman who had endured a week of emotional earthquakes.
She looked like the heroine of an old Hollywood film.
Her silk gown skimmed every curve like it had been made specifically for her body and then whispered into existence by someone terrifyingly talented.
The fabric caught the light as she moved, smooth and luminous, the fitted bodice flowing into a train that drifted across the floor behind her like cream spilling over marble.
The neckline dipped into an elegant V, timeless rather than trendy, while tiny beaded straps glittered against her skin. And when she turned, the veil shimmered with scattered crystals, delicate as starlight caught in tulle.
But the back of the dress was my favourite part. A dramatic low scoop framed by a line of satin-covered buttons running down her spine, striking and sophisticated all at once.
Her hair was swept into a sleek chignon, not a strand out of place, and her makeup had that effortless, editorial glow that took two hours and the patience of a saint to achieve.
She was breathtaking.
Emma stood behind her with tissues stuffed up one sleeve, whispering, “Caroline, I swear to God, if James doesn’t cry the moment he sees you, I will kick him out of the ceremony myself.”
She said it very seriously for a woman wearing glittering dusty-rose satin and six bobby pins holding her fringe hostage.
Her bridesmaid dress was a fitted, elegant column, with a plunging neckline. Definitely old-money chic with a modern edge. Emma had paired it with diamond studs, and a blowout so glossy it could signal ships.
Sophie, on the other hand, resembled a woodland nymph who had accidentally wandered into a billionaire wedding and decided to stay.
Her dusty-rose dress had soft, fluttered sleeves and a flowing skirt that moved like poetry every time she walked.
She’d woven tiny spray-roses into her curls, the overall effect heartbreakingly romantic and impossibly her.
She stood to the side, clutching her bouquet like it held actual magical powers. Her eyes kept shining, part nerves, part joy.
Emma shot her a worried glance. “Soph, you’re not going to faint, are you?”
Sophie blinked hard and pressed her lips together. “I’m fine,” she whispered, though her voice was raspy enough to contradict the entire statement. “I just… she looks beautiful. It’s all just so much.”
“Darling, everything’s so much,” Emma murmured, gently fixing one of Sophie’s curls. “But we’re doing it in couture, so we’ll survive.”
The two of them stood behind Caroline, Emma sleek and glamorous, Sophie whimsical and glowing, both dressed in the same dusty-rose palette but somehow looking like they’d stepped out of entirely different fairy tales.
And yet, together, they were perfect.
Margaret hovered in the doorway, eyes bright, lips trembling in a way she would deny until her last breath. “You… look beautiful, darling.”
And for once, Caroline didn’t shrink beneath her mother’s gaze. She didn’t brace herself. She didn’t wait for a correction or a critique or a dramatic sigh.
The last few days had changed her.
Like somewhere between the missing brooch, the family revelations, and nearly losing James altogether, Caroline had stopped trying to be the perfect daughter and started becoming herself.
Standing there now in her gown, shoulders relaxed, chin lifted, she seemed stronger somehow.
“Thank you, Mum,” she said gently.
And for once, Margaret didn’t interrupt, correct, or tighten her grip on the moment.
She just stood there, eyes shining with something that looked a lot like acceptance.
Caroline turned to me then.
“Holly,” she said turning to me. “Thank you. For… everything.”
For once, I had to force my voice not to wobble.
“You’re welcome,” I said. “You look incredible.”
But it was the brooch pinned on her dress, the brooch, that made my breath catch.
She wore it fully aware of the storm it had caused.
She understood the history threaded into its surface, the decades-old love story hidden beneath the diamonds, the secrecy and heartbreak it had carried through generations.
And still she chose to wear it, not out of obligation, but with a deliberate respect.
As the morning light caught on the brooch, it felt less like an heirloom and more like a piece finally returning to its story.
“You’re glowing,” I said honestly.
She touched her stomach. “I feel a bit sick.”
“That’s completely normal.”
Caroline laughed, her face relaxing into a smile.
Cleo poked her head in. “The photographer’s ready for the dress shots. He’s pacing like a man one coffee away from a meltdown.”
Luca Valentino floated around Caroline like a stylish hummingbird, snapping shot after shot with breathless reverence. Dress hem. Veil drape. A close-up of her eyelashes “for texture.”
I took that as my cue to slip out of the bridal suite when Luca disappeared completely into what he called his “artistic flow.”
Groom’s suite next.
Always the wild card.
Halfway down the corridor I could already hear voices through the door, muffled bickering, something falling over, someone groaning dramatically.
So… typical groom energy.
I knocked once.
“Come in!” Elaine called warmly.
Of course she was in there.
The woman was the human equivalent of a soothing cup of tea. If anyone could keep a room of panicking men from burning the place down, it was Elaine Quinn.
I pushed the door open.
James stood in front of the mirror, wrestling with his bow tie like it was a hostile creature trying to attack him. His suit jacket was already undone, his hair slightly mussed, and a sheen of absolute terror coated his forehead.
“I swear,” he muttered, glaring at his reflection, “this thing fit a few days ago.”