Chapter 2
Lizanne
Lizanne marched out of the room exactly thirty seconds after entering it. She had barely laid eyes on the woman waiting in the gallery when her phone had vibrated against her hip.
The text was from Trina.
Can’t make it.
Shit. Again? Lizanne felt a familiar, hot prickle of irritation behind her eyes. She stood in the hallway, the cool marble floor beneath her feet feeling like a pedestal she hadn’t asked to stand on.
Why not?
Delayed. Session is running over. I’ll be there for the second one. Or is it the third? Honey bee, you don’t really need me to pick a planner anyway. Do you?
Lizanne stared at the screen.
I suppose not.
She didn’t need Trina to help her choose a vendor, but she wanted her there to choose a life.
This was their wedding and yet Trina was treating it like a mandatory dental cleaning.
A thumbs-up icon appeared next to her last message.
Lizanne stared at that digital thumb longer than she cared to admit, feeling the silence in the massive house.
Pat poked her head into the hall. “The planner is here,” Pat said, her voice a low rasp.
“Yeah, I saw her. Briefly. I got a text from Trina. She can’t make it.”
“Got it. Need me to sit in?”
“No,” Lizanne said, straightening her vest. “I think I can manage a wedding planner on my own.”
Pat nodded once and walked away. Lizanne tucked her phone into her pocket, took a breath and made her way back into the room.
This time, the planner had her back to the door.
She was standing before a large, cast photograph from Gilden Duchess, the Regency drama that was currently taking the small screen of the country by storm.
The woman was younger than her professional emails had suggested, perhaps mid-twenties, but she carried herself with the composure that didn’t match her age.
Her hair was a dark, ink-black shock, tipped with a defiant streak of crimson at the ends.
But it was the suit that truly caught Lizanne’s eye.
She recognized it instantly. Chanel, 2015.
It was the slim cut that had defined that entire season.
It wasn’t new, but it was impeccably cared for.
This wasn’t something bought off a rack last week.
Lizanne noticed the way the left lapel was softening, a subtle crease where a heavy bag strap usually sat.
“Is that the 2015 collection?” Lizanne asked.
The woman turned. There was no startle reflex, no hurried recalibration of her posture to suit a celebrity. She simply shifted her weight and found Lizanne’s gaze.
“It is,” the woman said. “They’re a classic. They don’t date if you know how to wear them.”
Lizanne crossed to the velvet sofa, her eyes tracking the woman’s movements.
Up close, the cuffs confirmed her theory—the fabric was thinning slightly from years of heavy wear.
Lizanne felt a sudden, sharp pang of recognition; she had owned an outfit just like it back when she was auditioning for commercials to pay the rent at her tiny apartment shared with five other wannabes.
“No,” Lizanne said, sinking into the cushions. “They don’t. Drink?” She rang a small silver bell beside the sofa.
Mel appeared on cue, as if he’d been waiting behind the wallpaper. Lizanne ordered her usual sparkling water with a twist; the planner, surprisingly, asked for a Pepsi Max.
“So, you got our second NDA? The one regarding the production?”
“Yup. Signed it already.”
“You didn’t have questions,” Lizanne noted.
“I might once we get through talking and I find out how this TV show affects the actual mechanics of the wedding. Now, Pat Seahorn said you’re planning on 400 guests?”
Straight to the point. Professional.
“Five hundred guests,” Lizanne corrected.
“We have a vineyard in mind for the venue. You’d have to secure it.
I know the designer I want, I know what I want to eat, and I know exactly what flowers I want.
I just need someone who can arrange the chaos and ensure we aren’t overrun by the press. We’d need security, obviously.”
“Perimeter teams, not just door staff,” the planner—Rose—said instantly. Her mind was clearly already moving through a checklist. “Credentialed check-in, photographer exclusion zones, and a separate entrance for talent. I use Del’Aram Security for events at this level.”
“They’ll do short notice? The wedding is on October 27th,” Lizanne asked, impressed despite herself.
Rose nodded, her chin lifting with a pert, defiant air. “I hired them for Jerome Prentiss’ garden party with forty-eight hours’ notice when his regular security bailed. We didn’t have a single gate-crasher.”
Lizanne studied her. “The Prentiss party. That was yours? I heard the lighting rig had to be completely redesigned the morning of the event because of the wind.”
Rose didn’t blink. “At five-forty-five AM. The party started on time, and the lighting was better than the original plan.”
“The catering ran behind,” Lizanne challenged.
“The catering was a vendor the client insisted on despite my recommendation,” Rose countered. “I flagged the risk of their staffing levels in writing three weeks prior. I can provide the email thread if you’re concerned about my foresight.”
Lizanne let the silence stretch, savoring the steel in the girl’s voice. She liked that Rose didn’t flinch. “I didn’t see any experience with reality television on your resume, Rose.”
“I didn’t know there would be a reality TV component until ten minutes ago, but I assure you, I can handle a few camera crews. I’ve done birthdays for the Loveland family more than once. If I can survive those siblings, I can survive a director.”
The Lovelands. Lizanne almost laughed. They were a family of trust-fund terrors who were famous for being famous. Their father was a sitting US Senator, their mother a Hollywood agent.
“This will be a classier affair than what the Lovelands are doing,” Lizanne said, her tone dropping.
“Think more… a stylish documentary. Not a drama-filled mockumentary. The show begins filming the moment you start the processional. There is no second take. If you drop the cake, three million people watch it fall in real-time.”
Rose absorbed this, her eyes narrowing as she calculated the risks. “Prime Esque produces the show?”
Lizanne crossed her legs. “It was in the NDA.”
“Of course. So, to accommodate them, the aisle width has to account for a Steadicam rig. And the lighting has to be built for the lens, not just the ambiance.” She looked at Lizanne steadily.
“I’m aware.”
“I want to make sure we’re talking about the same thing,” Rose said. “Some clients hear ‘television’ and think it means prettier. It means more difficult. It means cables under the rugs and microphones in the centerpieces.”
“Miss Delaney,” Lizanne said, her voice dropping that octave again—the one she used when she wanted to remind people who was in charge. “Are you telling me my own wedding will be complicated?”
“I’m telling you it will be if you want it done right.” Rose didn’t flinch. “Which I assume you do, or you wouldn’t be interviewing multiple planners for a job that should have started yesterday, given the six-week timeframe.”
Lizanne found she wasn’t entirely opposed to being challenged. It was a refreshing change from the sycophants Trina usually dragged home. But there was one thing missing—a sense of shared experience.
“Are you married, Rose?” Lizanne asked. The pivot was a sharp left turn, designed to catch her off guard.
Rose took it in stride. “No.”
“Have you been?”
“No.”
“The other two planners I’m considering have forty years of marriage between them,” Lizanne said, leaning back.
“They’ve planned their own. This isn’t just a logistics exercise.
It’s supposed to mean something. I worry that, having never been a bride, you don’t understand the emotional stakes.
You seem to understand the production, but do you understand the heart? ”
Rose was quiet for a heartbeat. Lizanne thought she had her—thought the girl was finally rattled. But then Rose’s posture shifted, a subtle straightening of the spine.
“I didn’t say I wasn’t getting married,” Rose said. Their eyes met, blue clashing with dark brown.
“Oh?” Lizanne waited.
“My fiancé and I are marrying on December fourteenth,” Rose said. “I’ve been planning it alongside my client work. If anything, it’s been useful—having a project where I personally feel the stakes every time a vendor calls.”
“Why didn’t you just say so?”
Rose shrugged and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I don’t like to mix my personal life with my professional one.
It’s messy. But since it matters to you: we’re planning a winter theme because we met at a ski resort.
White birch, hanging candles, the entire ceiling dressed in greenery.
It’s the most demanding thing I’ve ever designed. ”
She held the pause.
“And I know exactly why every detail matters. Because when I look at the guest list, I’m not seeing numbers. I’m seeing my life.”
“A winter wedding,” Lizanne mused. “And your fiancé is—”
“Derek. An attorney,” Rose said. “Lizanne, I know the moving parts. But I also know what’s at the heart of the day.”
The corner of Lizanne’s mouth twitched. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was close enough.
She stood, ending the meeting with the practiced grace of a woman who was used to having the last word.
“Submit a full design concept by Friday. Regency Chic is the theme. But I want it elevated—not a costume party. No trashy gold leaf.”
“That’s fair,” Rose said, standing and smoothing her Chanel.
They shook hands. Rose’s grip was quick, firm.
“The timeline is tight. The network wants to start shooting ASAP,” she said while still shaking her hand.
“I wondered about that.” Rose let go.
“Ideally, I would have liked to have a few months to plan all of this, but six weeks is all we have. Think you can manage?”
“I know I can.”
“Well, I look forward to your plan.”
Mel walked the woman out while Lizanne stood and gazed after her. She was confident. Or at least she knew how to pretend to appear confident. And she was easy on the eyes; that was a plus too.
Lizanne shook her head. She shouldn’t be thinking things like this.
Not about the potential wedding planner.
And yet, that lipstick, those slightly out-of-fashion red tips…
There was something about Rose Delaney that had gotten her interested.
She was a character, that was for sure. And the fact that she was getting married herself had gone a long way to sealing the deal for Lizanne.
Given how uninterested Trina had been in their wedding preparations, it would be nice to have someone who was just as into planning weddings at her side.
She took a deep breath, realizing that this wasn’t exactly how she should be feeling or thinking, a few weeks out from her own wedding. She pulled her phone out, her heart skipping a beat as she waited for the screen to come on.
Then she saw it. A text from Trina.
Hope it goes well with the planner. On my way, will be there to meet the second one.
Lizanne exhaled. Good. This was good. This was, in fact, exactly what she had needed.