Through the archway leading to the ballroom, I spot one of the rental company's crew members wrapping the crystal candelabras in what appears to be newspaper instead of the protective foam I specifically requested. My jaw tightens, and I'm about to march over there and give him a lecture when exhaustion hits me. I don't have the energy to be The Boss right now.
I scan the ballroom for Sophie, thinking she can handle the rental return discussion, but I don't see her anywhere. Strange.Sophie never disappears during breakdown—she's usually the last person standing, tablet in hand, making sure every fork is accounted for.
The Pemberton-Astor nuptials were beautiful. The ceremony took place in the castle's ancient chapel with its jewel-toned stained glass windows casting colored light across the stone floor. We transformed the grand ballroom for the reception by weaving thousands of garden roses, peonies, and trailing jasmine up the stone columns and around every archway, as if the castle itself had bloomed overnight. Antique silver candelabras lined the tables dressed in champagne silk, echoing the castle's romantic, timeless elegance.
Three hundred and fifty guests from New York's most exclusive circles flew in on private jets, and every single detail exceeded their expectations. The bride cried happy tears, the groom's speech made even the stoic emotional, and when they had their first dance to "La Vie En Rose" performed by a violinist I flew in from the Paris Opera, there wasn't a dry eye in the ballroom.
I'm shattered from coordinating vendors who speak different languages while navigating French bureaucracy that has tested my patience like never before. I've barely slept in the past two weeks I've been here preparing for the event, and for the first time in my career, I didn't really want to be here. I wanted to be home. With Blair.
My phone buzzes against the silk cushion beside me, and I reach for it with the last reserves of energy I can muster. Blair's name lights up the screen, and I smile.
Blair and her mother have been researching historic properties across Manhattan, and last month they put in an offer on a stunning but neglected Beaux-Arts building near Central Park. The renovation will take years, but their vision is ambitious—a world-class luxury hotel that preserves thebuilding's architectural heritage while offering every modern amenity. Blair’s been as consumed by architectural surveys and zoning permits as I've been by work, and sometimes we’re like ships passing in the night even when we're both in the same city.
How did it go, Boss?she asks.Did you conquer the impossible wedding?
I type back:Flawless. Currently melting into a 500-year-old chair.
I can picture you,comes her immediate reply.Got any energy left for a late-night dinner with me?
I frown at my phone. Blair's in New York—I talked to her this morning.
Very funny,I type back.Unless you've figured out how to teleport across the Atlantic, I think we'll have to settle for FaceTime and room service.
And then I hear it—that rhythmic thumping. No. She wouldn't.
But the sound is growing louder, and through the arched windows, I see lights approaching across the darkened countryside. I drop my phone and rush to the terrace.
The helicopter settles onto the castle's helipad and Blair jumps out with a weekend bag slung over her shoulder. She waves at the pilot before the helicopter takes off again.
She's wearing dark jeans and a white linen shirt. Her hair is windblown, and when she sees me standing on the terrace in my black cocktail dress and bare feet, she spreads her arms.
I run and she meets me halfway, catching me as I launch myself into her embrace. Suddenly I'm spinning in circles under the French stars.
"What are you doing here?" I laugh against her neck, breathing in her scent.
"I missed you," she says, setting me down but keeping her arms wrapped around me. "I know you have a few days off after tonight and I thought we could spend some time here together."
My heart flutters and I welcome the feeling. I stopped fighting it when I realized that Blair Davis doesn't just make promises, she keeps them. Every single one.
This past year has been a revelation. Not just falling in love—though that happened completely and irrevocably somewhere between the mustard museum and a rainy Tuesday morning when she showed up at my apartment with coffee and croissants just to see me smile. But learning to trust again. Learning that not everyone lies, that not all promises get broken, that some people actually mean it when they say they'll be there.
Blair never pushed for more than I could give, never demanded promises I wasn't ready to make. Instead, she just showed up. Consistently, reliably, exactly as she said she would. She learned to read my moods, to know when I needed space and when I needed her to pull me out of my own head. She didn’t try to fix me or change me—she just loved me exactly as I am.
And Danny. Sweet Danny has become like a brother to me. He's visited New York a few times this year, and each visit has felt like a gift.
My parents know everything now. They were hurt at first—not about Blair, but that I'd felt I needed to lie to them. We've talked it through. They love Blair—Dad's even talked her into giving him flying lessons.
"I can't believe you flew here tonight," I say, shaking my head. "That's... incredibly romantic."
"Well, I had to make sure the timing was perfect."
"Timing for what?"
Instead of answering, Blair takes my hand and starts leading me toward the castle's rose garden. The castle is lit with softgolden lights, and the late-night air carries the scent of jasmine and lavender.
"Blair," I say as we walk down the gravel path between manicured hedges. "What's going on?"
The path curves around a hedge wall, leading into a secluded courtyard. An old stone fountain bubbles at its heart, surrounded by rose bushes heavy with pale white and pink blooms. A small table has been set for two—the same ivory silk linens from tonight's reception, complete with the gold-rimmed Limoges china, crystal glasses, and silverware. Candles flicker in hurricane lanterns, and a bottle of Dom Pérignon waits in a silver ice bucket.
