Ilost.
Not the job. Not the position. Not the prestigious title of creative director that would be officially bestowed upon me in exactly forty-seven minutes. On paper, I’d won everything I’d spent my career chasing.
But I’d lost the only thing that mattered.
My reflection stared back at me from the hotel bathroom mirror. A Hugo Boss suit pressed to perfection, a Hermès tie that my mother had sent as a “congratulations” gift, hair styled with the ridiculously expensive product. The picture of success. Of achievement. Of the Hudson Gable my parents had spent my entire life molding me to be.
A stranger with green eyes.
I splashed cold water on my face, my hands trembling. Three weeks since the Kussikov-Martin wedding. Three weeks since I’d watched Mari’s eyes dim as she realized what I’d done. Three weeks of sleepless nights haunted by the sound of her voice when she’d said,“I would have shared everything with you willingly if you’d asked.”
My phone vibrated against the marble countertop. The fourth call from my mother in twenty minutes. The screen displayed her text beneath the missed call notification.
Where are you? Everyone is arriving. Your father is speaking with Eleanor about future collaborations. Don’t be late!
Future collaborations. Of course. This wasn’t just about me. This was about them expanding their Gable empire through their prodigal son’s new position.
I hadn’t spoken to either of them since that night when I’d slammed my father against the wall after he’d called Mari a “passing slut in a short dress.” The memory still made my jaw clench. I wondered how much I’d have to pay if I put my hand through the nicely wallpapered wall next to me.
The pain would at least give me something to focus on other than the unforgivable thing I was about to do.
Instead, though, I picked up the folded piece of paper on the counter; my speech, written and rewritten dozens of times over the past week.
The hotel ballroom where Modern Wedding was holding the signing ceremony held pristine white furniture that no practical person would ever own, fresh flower arrangements, and tacky tapestries on the walls. Eleanor Trolio’s assistant greeted me, clutching a tablet and wearing a wide grin.
“Mr. Gable! We were starting to worry. Mrs. Trolio is waiting. We’ve had an incredible turnout.”
My mouth went dry. “Turnout? I thought this was just a contract signing with Modern Wedding.”
The assistant’s smile widened, revealing too-perfect veneers. “Oh, no! Mrs. Trolio expanded it into a proper press event once word got out. Every major wedding publication is here, plus lifestyle media, industry influencers—” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Even Bridal Vision sent someone, and they never cover competitor announcements.”
Perfect. My personal apocalypse would have maximum witnesses.
“How thoughtful,” I managed, adjusting my tie even though it didn’t need adjusting.
“Your parents arrived twenty minutes ago,” she continued as she led me towards the opposite side of the room. People mingled, probably talking about the latest in industry standards. “Your father’s been talking shop with the board members. Quite the charmer.”
I could imagine. My father had built their company on his ability to make wealthy people feel special while separating them from obscene amounts of money.
The large event space held at least sixty people-filled rows of white chairs facing a podium adorned with the Modern Wedding logo. Photographers lined the perimeter, adjusting equipment and chatting among themselves. A table draped in white linen stood to the side of the podium, with a contract and pen laid out. God, these people were tawdry.
In the front row sat my parents. My mother looked immaculate in a pale blue St. John suit, her dark hair styled in the same sophisticated bob she’d maintained for twenty years. Beside her, my father sat with the straight-backed posture of a man who believed his mere presence was a gift to those around him.
They hadn’t seen me yet, too busy accepting congratulations from industry peers who knew better than to miss an opportunity to kiss the Gable ring.
“Hudson!” Eleanor Trolio materialized at my side, resplendent in a white Armani pantsuit. “There you are. We’re about to begin.”
“Mrs. Trolio,” I said, shaking her offered hand. “I didn’t realize this would be quite so... extensive.”
She laughed. “Of course it is! This isn’t just a new hire announcement. It’s a strategic direction for Modern Wedding.” She leaned closer, her old-lady perfume overwhelming. “Between us, the board sees your digital platform as the future of the brand. Your parents must be thrilled.”
My stomach twisted. “About that?—”
“Five minutes, Mrs. Trolio,” a young woman with a headset interrupted, clipboard extended.
“Perfect.” Eleanor signed something, then turned back to me. “I’ve prepared quite an introduction. All you need to do is give your acceptance speech, sign with the ceremonial pen—it’s Montblanc; they’re sponsoring the announcement—and pose for some photos. Then we can all celebrate at the reception.”
She squeezed my arm and glided away before I could respond, leaving me standing there with the speech burning a hole in my pocket and sweat beading at my hairline despite the aggressive air conditioning.
