Maybe it was my imagination, but each man seemed more intense than the last.
I’d done celebrity weddings. Multi-million-dollar productions. Reality TV nightmares. But nothing prepared me for what it felt like to stand at the head of a room full of former soldiers who looked like they were already calculating backup plans in case I failed.
“I’ve read all your intake forms,” I said, flipping open my tablet. “Let me start by saying it’s incredibly ambitious to plan six weddings in a month. But it’s not impossible. With the right support, the right structure?—”
“Let me guess,” Marcus interrupted. “Spreadsheets?”
Claire elbowed him. “She means professionalism. Try it sometime.”
“I’ll need participation from everyone,” I continued. “I know you all have schedules and obligations, but if we want this to feel cohesive?—”
“Hard pass,” Noah said. “We’re letting the women handle it.”
Of course.
I’d heard it a thousand times. Grooms shrugging off the most important day of their partner’s life like it was a car wash appointment. And every time, it hit the same nerve. I wasn’t just here to fluff napkins and admire floral arches—I built timelines tighter than missile strike ops, managed vendors who cried in walk-ins, and coordinated million-dollar logistics while smiling through it all. So when a man dismissed all that with a lazywe’re letting the women handle it?
In my head,I was already stabbing a tiny fondant groom with a gold-plated cake knife.
“That’s not going to happen,” Hallie Mae said, sugar-sweet but deadly.
Anna crossed her arms. “We’re not walking down the aisle solo while you morons sneak off to drink bourbon and play with explosives.”
“I’m not playing,” Charlie said with a smirk. “I take explosives very seriously.”
“Which is why we’re involved,” Sloane said, flipping her hair. “You can’t be trusted not to blow something up just for the photo op.”
None of the men flinched. Not even a little. They just sat there—broad shoulders, bigger egos—like I’d walked into a security briefing, not six wedding consultations.
Marcus had his feet propped on the edge of the table like he was waiting for someone to pass him a cigar. Noah was leaning back, arms crossed, wearing an expression that said this was a courtesy, not a necessity. Elias didn’t even look up from his phone, which I was pretty sure he’d been coding on since I arrived. Charlie was doing that half-smirk thing men do whenthey’re only pretending to listen. Ryker glanced out the window at the harbor like he had a boat to catch.
Not one of them seemed remotely interested in discussing color palettes, seating charts, or guest logistics.
This wasn’t disinterest. It was a coordinated display of collective male dismissal. They were outnumbered, technically—but you wouldn’t know it from the energy in the room. It was the kind of patriarchal theater I’d seen so often. Big men, bigger silences. Letting their fiancées carry the emotional load while they coasted until the tux fitting.
I was going to kill them. Or at least make them suffer through floral mock-ups until they begged for mercy. It was the least I could do for these lovely ladies.
But that wasn’t the professional response.
No, the professional response was to smile, nod, and weaponize my clipboard like the strategic document it was. I’d dealt with men like this before—the kind who thought weddings were a feminine nuisance, a frivolous afterthought that didn’t require their input unless something caught fire or blocked the view of the whiskey bar. Usually, I let them spiral until their own fiancée took them out back and recalibrated their expectations.
But this? This was six former special-ops alphas who operated their own private military. They weren’t just disinterested—they were united in their resistance. Subtle glances passed between them like a silent brotherhood briefing had already been held in another room. The consensus was clear: We don’t need to be involved. We’ve already won. We showed up. That’s enough.
It made my eye twitch.
I could feel their confidence like a weight in the room—grounded, immovable, smug. The women beside them were engaged and opinionated, smart and stylish, and clearly used to keeping their men in check. But even they seemed a littleexasperated, like this had been the subject of more than one argument behind closed doors.
I considered my options.
I could go full drill sergeant and shame them into participating—break them down and rebuild them like boot camp, wedding edition. But that would only work if they cared what I thought, and so far, they didn’t. I could appeal to logic and legacy: talk about how these weddings would be documented forever, immortalized in glossy photos and edited videos their children would one day study like wartime footage. But men like this didn’t respond to that either. They responded to challenge.
Which meant I needed to stop trying to include them and try a different tactic.
I cleared my throat, thinking carefully about what to do next.
Atlas hadn’t said anything yet, but suddenly, he stood—easily the largest of them all, beard trimmed, sleeves rolled. He looked like a man who’d once disarmed bombs with his bare hands and didn’t think it was worth mentioning.
“We show up,” he said simply. “We do our part. That’s what we promised.”
