Chapter One
Dallas, Texas
* * *
Lyla
* * *
The bustle emergency hits at 2:47p.m.
Hanging tulle from on of the aisle markers snags around my heel as I pivot across the marble floor, barely catching myself before I plow into a six-foot arrangement of imported peonies on a center table ahead. I steady the vase with one hand, juggle my coffee with the other, and keep moving.
“Lyla, please hurry.” The voice of Kiera Young—soon to be Knight—shakes through my phone. “The bustle just ripped. There’s fabric everywhere?—”
“I’m coming. Thirty seconds.” I don’t slow down. “Breathe. You’re fine.”
She isn’t fine. But that’s why I’m here.
I push through the bridal-suite doors with my emergency kit in the inseam pocket of my dress. Kiera stands in the center of the room in her Vera Wang gown, frozen in horror. Pearls and thread scatter at her feet like evidence at a crime scene. Her maid of honor and bestie, Kami Hernandez, is holding torn fabric in both hands like it might bite her.
“It’s ruined,” Kiera whispers.
“It’s not.” I drop to my knees, fingers already assessing the damage. “Kami, steamer. Now. Kiera, I need you to trust me.”
Trust.
That’s a word I use professionally at least fifty times a week. Brides trust me with the biggest day of their lives. Vendors trust my contracts. Venues trust my timelines.
I rebuild broken things for a living.
“Fifteen minutes,” I say calmly, threading a needle. “You’ll walk down that aisle flawless.”
My voice never wavers. My hands never shake. The chaos around me quiets because I don’t give it permission to stay loud.
Seven years of building Clark Events from nothing has trained me well. I don’t panic. I problem solve.
Fifteen minutes later, Kiera glides toward the altar like nothing ever happened. Jonathan Knight’s face softens when he sees her. The room fades for them. They look at each other like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
My chest tightens for half a second.
I swallow it down.
I orchestrate fairy tales. I don’t live inside them.
By the time the ceremony ends, my feet ache and my coffee is cold. I finally check my phone.
One new message.
Katie.
I open it expecting a vendor question.
Instead:
I can’t do this anymore. The stress is affecting my relationship. I need something more stable. I’m sorry.
There’s no notice. No warning. Just a clean exit.
