Instead of a nap, I had a clipboard, six weddings to execute, and approximately zero help from the men allegedly starring in them.
I’d excused myself from the “war room”—and yes, that’s what they actually called it—with a tight smile and a vague commentabout needing to assess exterior logistics. No one offered to join. No one asked questions.
Typical.
I stepped out into the light and let the sun hit my face, just long enough to burn the tension out of my jaw. The breeze off the harbor was stronger than expected, fluttering the corners of my blouse and lifting the scent of salt and old wood.
Dominion Hall looked like it had been carved from ambition, all stone and glass and steel and modernity. Nothing frilly or too feminine. Just expansive grounds, thick walkways, and water views so grand they felt offensive.
I made my way down the back path, clipboard in hand, scanning potential ceremony spots—front lawn? Too gaudy. Courtyard? Too echoey. Dock? Gorgeous … but a logistical nightmare if the Yorktown stunt actually happened.
I paused at the far edge of the property where the dock extended into the harbor like a middle finger aimed at tradition. It was wide enough to support an entrance, maybe a setup for Ryker’s water approach. I scribbled notes, drew a rough layout.
If I used the lawn leading to the dock as a staging area, I could line it with lanterns or hurricane vases, create a romantic glow leading all the way to the platform. The harbor breeze could either be a dream or a disaster—I'd need to anchor every chair, secure every floral arrangement, double the tape on the aisle runner. Fabric draping was a no-go unless I wanted it flapping like a busted sail in all the photos.
Sound would be an issue, too. Outdoor mics. Wind shields. Maybe a discreet speaker rig along the perimeter, something hidden in floral towers or disguised beneath decorative fencing. I’d need to confirm wattage with the grounds crew and make sure any wiring wouldn’t trip someone’s grandma on the way to her seat.
Then there was the weather. Charleston was basically polite hell all year round—sun one minute, thunder the next. I’d need a full rain contingency: tent rentals with high-clearance peaks, clear siding to keep the view but block the wind, backup flooring to cover the grass in case it turned to mud. And not just any tent—something architectural, something elegant, not a sad circus shelter flapping against white linens. That meant permits, inspections, walk-throughs with the vendors. I made a note to loop Teddy in on that, or to find out who would run point, if not him.
The lighting alone was a whole separate battle. String lights from the trees could create a canopy, but I’d have to calculate distances, power sources, weight-bearing limits on the branches. And I’d need to know the sunset time to plan the ceremony lighting shift from natural golden hour to man-made ambiance.
Restroom access, parking coordination, guest transportation, emergency medical equipment—everything had to be mapped, documented, scheduled down to the minute. I wasn’t just planning a wedding. I was orchestrating a live, open-air production with no margin for error and a cast of six alpha grooms who wanted dramatic entrances that wouldn’t make them look like fools.
I tapped the edge of my pen against my clipboard.
If I pulled this off, it wouldn’t just be a wedding. It would be the kind of event that made other planners either call me for advice or quietly hate me forever.
I intended to give them plenty of reason for both.
Then I caught my reflection in the water.
My shoulders were hunched.
I straightened them fast.
I hated that this place had gotten under my skin already. Hated that those men—those oversized, emotionally constipatedG.I. Joes—had rolled over my plan like I was some intern with a color wheel and a Pinterest board.
I was Portia fucking Lane.
I hadn’t clawed my way out of small-town Arkansas just to be dismissed by a room full of tactical testosterone and ego. I’d started with nothing—no connections, no capital, not even a last name anyone cared about. Just a borrowed blazer, a busted laptop, and a vision board taped to the back of a bathroom door in a one-bedroom sublet. I’d cold-emailed venues until my fingers cramped. Taken jobs no one else wanted—elopements in diners, shotgun weddings on dirt roads, family brawls over flower arrangements.
In Atlanta, reputation was currency, and I’d minted mine from scratch. I’d walked into rooms where I didn’t belong and made damn sure I did by the time I left. I’d learned to speak fluent luxury—how to navigate clients who name-dropped producers, how to make a tent on a budget look like a Vogue spread, how to hold my tongue when a mother-of-the-bride insulted my shoes but still cut the check.
Every favor I’d called in, every sleepless night, every time I’d swallowed pride or fury to protect the brand—I’d built this life. Brick by brick. Deal by deal. Contract by contract.
I wasn't about to let the Dane brothers treat me like a decorative extra.
I'd handled a bride who faked her own death to test her fiancé. I’d coordinated a wedding on a moving yacht with three ex-girlfriends onboard. I had this.
I just needed to reassert control.
Which is when I heard the creak of footsteps behind me.
I turned fast—clipboard up, instinct sharp—but it wasn’t a threat.
Not exactly.
Silas Dane walked down the path like he wasn’t following me. Like I’d somehow appeared in the space he was already headed toward. Casual. Silent. Dangerous as hell.
