But I'll be the one to hand her a ticket straight to Hell.
Chapter 7
Roxy
The scent of hot coffee and fresh beignets drifts through the entire floor, wrapping around me as I get ready to plan what my boss has dubbedthe event of the year. And by “dubbed,” I mean she actually said,“Roxy, this wedding is going to be like the Oscars and the Met Gala had a baby. It has to be perfect.”
Which is how I ended up in the conference room, surrounded by glossy catalogs of venues, gowns, floral arrangements, and desserts, waiting for the people who, with their “I do’s,” are basically buying me my annual bonus. The base salary’s fine, but without the bonuses from these big-ticket events, I couldn’t afford my lifestyle.
If Ivette taught me anything worth remembering, it’s that image matters. Nobody hiresthiscompany for something “modest.” They want lavish. Breathtaking. Eternal bragging rights.
That’s why the beige velvet dress I’m wearing costs half a month’s rent. The black Amina Muaddi heels? Let’s just say I lived on banana oatmeal for a week to afford them. The diamond earrings, thank God, were a gift from my uncle.
This crowd sizes you up in the first five seconds. If you can’t match their level, you’re not invited into their world.
In this world, centerpieces alone run into the thousands, venues require booking three years in advance, and wedding gowns are sewn by hand, stitch by painstaking stitch, for over a hundred hours.
Heavy footsteps echo in the hall, pulling me toward the edge of the conference table.
Two tall men enter first, one looks around forty five, the other around my age, flanking a woman in a pink Chanel suit straight out of the 1994 collection. Her black hair is pulled into a tight bun at the base of her neck, and an exquisite pearl necklace rests like a crown against her skin.
The older man looks…familiar somehow, though I can’t place him. His hair is still mostly black but dusted with gray, his eyes a deep molasses brown, and his suit? The suit screams“I spend my summers on a private beach in Sardinia.”
“My name’s Roxy Tatcher, and I’ll be assisting you with the wedding plans,” I say, catching the minute tension that tightens both the older man and the woman at my introduction. Subtle, but there. They relax just as fast.
“Marco Agosti,” the older man says. “This is my son, Luca, and my sister, Gianna. The wedding is for my son.”
His words are delivered evenly, but his eyes, they’re searching my face for something. I’m used to being studied in these meetings, but there’s something abouthisgaze that makes my spine stiffen.
“All right,” I say, flipping open my notes. “Let’s start with some basics to help me understand the kind of event you want. How many guests?”
The groom-to-be, propped against the window, doesn’t even bother to look at me.Someone is not thrilled about this meeting.
“Three hundred,” Gianna answers, her gaze running over me the way her brother’s had, head to toe, slow and deliberate.
“Got it. Are you leaning toward an outdoor location, or would you prefer something in the city?”
For their numbers, a garden setting would be perfect, but I know people like them don’t stray far from their urban playgrounds.
“A morgue would be ideal,” the man by the window says flatly.
I turn toward him, and for half a second, I almost feel bad for the guy.
“Noted. If we move quickly, I can probably find a priest, and an exorcist, willing to officiate,” I shoot back with a smile.
That’s when he finally turns to look at me. He doesn’tsmile, not exactly, but the corner of his mouth lifts just enough to count.
“Just make sure he brings plenty of incense,” he says. “There’ll be a lot of restless spirits around.”
I nearly laugh—nearly. But I rein it in. I’m a professional, even when joking with reluctant grooms. This isn’t the first time I’ve dealt with someone getting married under duress.
“Luca,” Gianna says, her tone a warning. “We’d prefer an outdoor venue no more than twenty miles from Chicago.”
“Perfect. Any particular color scheme in mind?” I ask, jotting notes and mentally marking which venues I need to callimmediatelyafter this meeting if I have any hope of securing one on a week’s notice.
Yes, a week. Who decides to get married in seven days when the groom looks like he’d rather swan dive out the window thansay ‘I do’? Not my problem. Especially when the client ended our initial call with those magic words: unlimited budget.
“Whatever you choose will be fine,” Gianna says simply.
