Chapter 4
Lizanne
The kitchen of their shared estate was a minimalist’s dream—all white marble, seamless cabinetry, and hidden appliances that made the space look less like a place for cooking and more like a laboratory.
Lizanne stood by the sprawling island, watching Trina dial in the grind on the industrial-grade espresso machine.
The hiss of steam was the only sound in the house, a sharp, white-noise contrast to the heavy silence of the canyon outside.
“I’m telling you, the energy in the room shifted the second she brought up her own wedding,” Lizanne said, leaning back against the cold marble counter.
She was still in her heavy silk robe, her face bare, the high-definition makeup from yesterday’s press junket long since scrubbed away.
“Before that, she was all Steadicam rigs and perimeter security. Very technical. Very cold. She felt like an operative.”
Trina didn’t look up from the portafilter, her focus entirely on the dark, oily beans. “Maybe she was nervous, honey bee. You’re a lot to take in when you’re standing in a living room that costs more than most people’s houses. Especially when you’re in ‘Duchess’ mode.”
“I wasn’t in Duchess mode. I was in ‘I’m paying you big bucks to put on my wedding in record time’ mode.
” Lizanne tapped her manicured nails against the marble in a restless, syncopated rhythm.
“The other two planners... they were fine. Polished. One of them actually brought a physical portfolio that looked like a leather-bound encyclopedia. But Rose? She looked like she’d crawled out of a trench and put on a Chanel suit to hide the mud.
I liked that. There was a hunger there. I just didn’t know if I trusted it with our wedding until she talked about that attorney of hers. ”
Trina finally looked up, handing Lizanne a small, perfect cup of espresso. Her eyes were dark and heavy with the kind of fatigue that only comes from twelve-hour studio sessions. “It’s your wedding. Pick whoever you want. I’m just the one who has to show up, look sharp, and say ‘I do.’”
“It’s our wedding, Trina.”
“And you’re the one who knows the difference between ‘Regency Chic’ and ‘Regency Trashy,’” Trina countered with a lazy, affectionate smile. She leaned over the island, catching Lizanne’s gaze. “I’m just here for the cake and the tax benefits.”
Lizanne rolled her eyes but felt the familiar, magnetic pull of her. “I saw she did Marcus Lance’s birthday party. Remember? The one with the lighting that actually made everyone look ten years younger and twenty percent more glam?”
Trina paused, her cup halfway to her lips. She tilted her head, the gears of her memory turning. “The one in the canyon? With the floating orchids? That was a good party. One of the only ones that didn’t feel like a networking event disguised as a celebration. People actually danced. She did that?”
“According to Pat.” Lizanne sighed, staring into the dark crema of her coffee. “There was just something... odd. A vibration I couldn’t quite catch. I’m going to do a bit more digging before we send the contract. I don’t like mysteries.”
“Spoken like a woman who’s played too many spies,” Trina teased. She stepped around the island, sliding her arms around Lizanne’s waist and pulling her close. The scent of coffee and Trina’s expensive citrus cologne enveloped her. “Good thing you’ll just have to play yourself for a bit.”
The mood shifted as the reality of the next few months settled over them like a heavy shroud.
Lizanne was in the final sprint of promotional interviews for Season Three of Gilden Duchess, and the network was already screaming for more content.
The timing for a wedding was a nightmare, but the marketing momentum was undeniable.
“The show, Trina,” Lizanne whispered, leaning her forehead against Trina’s shoulder. “Prime Esque called Pat this morning. They want the final shooting schedule. They want to start filming the week before the wedding, get some buildup going, some clips they can use.”
Trina’s posture stiffened slightly, a subtle hardening of the muscles in her back. “Right. The ‘reality’ of it all. Tell me again why we’re letting them follow us into the bedroom for twelve months? Why our first year of marriage has to be a global stream?”
“Because it will help the show and it will launch your new label into a different stratosphere. Plus, it’s a stylish documentary, Trina.
Not a soap opera,” Lizanne said, though she sounded like she was reciting a PR script she had memorized but didn’t quite believe.
“Not to mention the paycheck covers the estate in Provence we wanted. It’s one year, honey.
One year of being ‘on’ so we can be ‘off’ for the rest of our lives. ”
Trina gave in with a reluctant nod, the fight leaving her.
“All right. The contracts are already signed, anyway. I’m just..
. I’m tired of the lenses, Liz.” She kissed Lizanne’s cheek and pulled away, reaching for her keys on the counter.
“I have to get to the studio. Read your research. Pick your planner. Just make sure she knows I don’t wear dresses with puffed-up sleeves. ”
“I thought you were wearing a suit.”
“Yeah. But no knickerbockers, or whatever those Regency pants are called. I want to look like myself, not a footman.” And with that, she was gone.
***
Once the house was quiet again Lizanne retreated to her office.
She sat at her heavy oak desk, the laptop humming to life as the morning sun began to crawl across the floor.
She shouldn’t be doing this but Lizanne had always been her own best investigator.
She’d already reviewed Rose’s proposal for the Regency-themed wedding, and she’d loved every part of it.
What she wasn’t convinced of yet was Rose herself.
She typed Rose Delaney into the search bar.
The company website was exactly what she’d seen before: professional, minimalist, almost painfully curated.
Then she moved to the social media accounts.
Rose’s Instagram was a mix of floor plans, floral swatches, and the occasional shot of a coffee cup sitting next to a mountain of paperwork.
It was a business account, devoid of personality.
Lizanne scrolled back, deep into the archives, her finger flicking the trackpad with practiced speed. Hidden between a post about a corporate gala in 2024 and a “Day in the Life” reel, she found it. A photo of a small, bright-eyed girl with a gap-toothed smile and a pair of mismatched socks.
Love of my life. My Daisy.
Lizanne leaned back, a small, cynical smirk playing on her lips. “Rose and Daisy,” she muttered under her breath, the irony of the botanical naming scheme not lost on her. “How precious. What’s the mother’s name? Petunia? It’s practically a bouquet.”
She kept looking, her cursor hovering over a related search that the algorithm had served up. Wedding Registry: Rose Delaney and Derek Jones.
Lizanne’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, look at that.”
She clicked the link. It was a high-end registry, hosted on a site that required a password for the guest list but left the Our Wedding Story page public. The date was set for December 14th. The location was a Victorian glasshouse at an exclusive resort in the Catskill Mountains.
She scrolled through the public guest book, her eyes scanning the comments.
“Can’t wait to see you in that dress, Rose! Derek is a lucky man!” – Kayla.
“Derek better be ready for the seating chart of the century.” –Quinn.
There was even a photo of the happy couple. It was taken from behind, their heads together as they looked out over a fancy stone balcony toward a sunset. Lizanne recognized the hair immediately—the long black length tipped with that sharp, jagged red. This was a recent photo. Had to be.
Beside her stood the man, Derek. He was burly, with thick, curly brown hair and the shadow of a five-day beard along his jaw. He looked exactly like the patient, grounding attorney Rose had described.
Lizanne clicked over to the linked Pinterest board.
It was a masterclass in winter aesthetics.
White birch trees, thousands of hanging candles, a ceiling dripping in deep, lush greenery.
It wasn’t the work of a hack. It was the work of someone who understood that luxury was found in the details, not the glitter.
Lizanne went back to the company bio and looked at Rose’s headshot. She was strikingly pretty in a way that didn’t try too hard. There was a raw, focused energy in her eyes—the look of a woman who was used to fighting for her space in the world.
Lizanne felt a strange, fleeting thought cross her mind. If she wasn’t getting married to Trina, a woman like Rose Delaney might have been tempting.
Lizanne closed the laptop with a definitive snap. She had seen enough. The girl had the technical skill, she had the experience, and she clearly had the emotional skin in the game she’d claimed to have. She wasn’t just a vendor; she was a bride-to-be who understood the weight of the day.
She picked up her phone and hit speed dial.
“Pat?” Lizanne said when the assistant picked up. “Cancel the two o’clock interview with the other firm. We’re going with Delaney.”
“You’re sure?” Pat asked, her voice crackling with professional skepticism. “The other firm has a much larger staff and more experience with the network—”
“I don’t want a firm, Pat. I want the woman who’s as stressed as I am.” Lizanne looked out at her driveway, feeling a spark of genuine excitement for the first time in weeks. “Send the contract and pay her the deposit.”
“I’ll get it over to her immediately,” Pat said.
“And Pat? Mention I saw her registry. Tell her the hanging candles were a nice touch. I like a woman who pays attention to the light.”
She hung up, a slow smile spreading across her face. As far as Lizanne was concerned, she’d just hired the perfect partner for the wedding of the year.