1
LIV
They call me 'The Boss' behind my back—whispered by my staff in the break room, mentioned with awe by clients at cocktail parties, said with equal parts pride and concern by my friends over gossip. My name is Olivia Barnes, Liv to friends and family. But my reputation? That's all Boss, and I own it.
I tap my earpiece, my reflection in The Pierre's ornate mirrors catching my eye as I stride past. Even after seven hours on my feet, not a hair is out of place in my sleek dark chignon, my Alexander McQueen blazer still crisp. People expect perfection from me, and perfection is what they get.
"Maria, the lighting in the west corner is too cool. We need it warmer, more romantic. And where are my ice sculptures? They were supposed to be here half an hour ago."
The ballroom of The Pierre Hotel is a canvas waiting for its final brushstrokes. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, their light reflected on the gold leaf details that trace the room's architectural features. A small army of staff weaves through the space, transforming it for tonight's Bennett-Astor wedding. At$2.5 million, it's not just another event — it's my wedding of the season.
My Louboutins click against the marble floor as I navigate between tables. Usually, this rhythm soothes me, a percussion line to the symphony of organized chaos that is my life. Not today. Today, each step represents another second ticking down to my own impending disaster.
"Liv." Sophie, my assistant director, appears at my side. Her typically pristine bob is slightly disheveled — the only sign that we've been here since 4 AM. Dark circles lurk under her eyes, concealed but visible to someone who's known her for five years. "Everything is under control. The team knows what they're doing."
I ignore her comment, spotting a slightly wilted rose in one of the towering centerpieces. "This needs to be replaced." I reach for the offending bloom. "And the champagne towers?—"
"Are being set up as planned," Sophie interrupts, stepping into my path. At five-foot-four to my five-nine (six-one in heels), she has to crane her neck to meet my eyes, but that doesn't stop her. "Liv, you're spiraling."
"I'm not spiraling." The words come out sharper than intended and a nearby florist flinches, nearly drops her shears. Sophie raises an eyebrow, and I recognize the look. It's the same one I give brides when they're about to have a meltdown over napkin shades.
"When was the last time you took a break?" She checks her watch — a gift from me last year when she saved a wedding from disaster. "You need to get out of here for at least an hour. Get some fresh air."
"I'm fine." I straighten a place card that's approximately two millimeters off-center.
"The place cards are fine." Sophie's voice softens. "This isn't about the event, is it? You've been off for weeks."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I lie, the anxious knot in my stomach tightening.
"Go. Take a break. That's not a suggestion — it's an order from me who, need I remind you, you hired specifically to handle things when you can't."
I open my mouth to argue, but the look in Sophie's eyes stops me. She's right, and we both know it. With a sigh that's more exhaustion than annoyance, I tap my earpiece.
"Team leads, status check." One by one, they report in.
“Flowers: on schedule.”
“Catering: prepping according to timeline.”
“Lighting: adjustments in progress.”
“Music: sound check in one hour.”
Of course everything is under control, just as Sophie said.
"I'll be back in ninety minutes,” I tell them. “Sophie's in charge. Any emergencies, route through her first."
I grab my Hermès bag from my makeshift office — a converted coat check room from where I've been orchestrating this wedding.
The September air hits me with the first hints of autumn as I step onto Fifth Avenue. My mind races between centerpieces and family obligations while I weave through the crowd of tourists and business people. Three ignored calls and two blocks later, I push through the heavy glass doors of my favorite coffee shop.
The barista, Jake, starts making my double-shot oat milk latte before I reach the counter. Our office is nearby and he's used to me appearing at random times, when I'm on the verge of firing someone or abandoning a bride at the altar myself. Not that I'd ever do either — my reputation is worth more than momentary satisfaction.
My private phone buzzes just as I settle into my usual corner table with my coffee, shrugging off my blazer and feeling someof the tension leave my shoulders. Chloe's name flashes on the screen — my best friend since our college days. She moved to New York a year after I moved here and she’s the only person who can read me better than Sophie. The difference is, Chloe knows everything about me. Sophie doesn't.
"Are you at the venue?" she asks when I answer. Her voice carries the slight echo of her corner office at Goldman Sachs, where she's known to terrorize junior analysts while painting her nails.
"I'm taking a break." I cradle my latte, letting its warmth seep into my hands. They're always cold these days, no matter the season. Mom says it's because I work too hard. "Sophie practically forced me out."
