Pat poked her head into the hall. “The planner is here,” Pat said, her voice a low rasp.
“Yeah, I saw her. Briefly. I got a text from Trina. She can’t make it.”
“Got it. Need me to sit in?”
“No,” Lizanne said, straightening her vest. “I think I can manage a wedding planner on my own.”
Pat nodded once and walked away. Lizanne tucked her phone into her pocket, took a breath and made her way back into the room.
This time, the planner had her back to the door. She was standing before a large, cast photograph fromGilden Duchess, the Regency drama that was currently taking the small screen of the country by storm. The woman was younger than her professional emails had suggested, perhaps mid-twenties, but she carried herself with the composure that didn’t match her age. Her hair was a dark, ink-black shock, tipped with a defiant streak of crimson at the ends.
But it was the suit that truly caught Lizanne’s eye. She recognized it instantly. Chanel, 2015. It was the slim cut that had defined that entire season. It wasn’t new, but it was impeccably cared for. This wasn’t something bought off a rack last week. Lizanne noticed the way the left lapel was softening, a subtle crease where a heavy bag strap usually sat.
“Is that the 2015 collection?” Lizanne asked.
The woman turned. There was no startle reflex, no hurried recalibration of her posture to suit a celebrity. She simply shifted her weight and found Lizanne’s gaze.
“It is,” the woman said. “They’re a classic. They don’t date if you know how to wear them.”
Lizanne crossed to the velvet sofa, her eyes tracking the woman’s movements. Up close, the cuffs confirmed her theory—the fabric was thinning slightly from years of heavy wear. Lizanne felt a sudden, sharp pang of recognition; she had owned an outfit just like it back when she was auditioning for commercials to pay the rent at her tiny apartment shared with five other wannabes.
“No,” Lizanne said, sinking into the cushions. “They don’t. Drink?” She rang a small silver bell beside the sofa.
Mel appeared on cue, as if he’d been waiting behind the wallpaper. Lizanne ordered her usual sparkling water with a twist; the planner, surprisingly, asked for a Pepsi Max.
“So, you got our second NDA? The one regarding the production?”
“Yup. Signed it already.”
“You didn’t have questions,” Lizanne noted.
“I might once we get through talking and I find out how this TV show affects the actual mechanics of the wedding. Now, Pat Seahorn said you’re planning on 400 guests?”
Straight to the point. Professional.
“Five hundred guests,” Lizanne corrected. “We have a vineyard in mind for the venue. You’d have to secure it. I know the designer I want, I know what I want to eat, and I know exactly what flowers I want. I just need someone who can arrange the chaos and ensure we aren’t overrun by the press. We’d need security, obviously.”
“Perimeter teams, not just door staff,” the planner—Rose—said instantly. Her mind was clearly already moving througha checklist. “Credentialed check-in, photographer exclusion zones, and a separate entrance for talent. I use Del’Aram Security for events at this level.”
“They’ll do short notice? The wedding is on October 27th,” Lizanne asked, impressed despite herself.
Rose nodded, her chin lifting with a pert, defiant air. “I hired them for Jerome Prentiss’ garden party with forty-eight hours’ notice when his regular security bailed. We didn’t have a single gate-crasher.”
Lizanne studied her. “The Prentiss party. That was yours? I heard the lighting rig had to be completely redesigned the morning of the event because of the wind.”
Rose didn’t blink. “At five-forty-five AM. The party started on time, and the lighting was better than the original plan.”
“The catering ran behind,” Lizanne challenged.
“The catering was a vendor the client insisted on despite my recommendation,” Rose countered. “I flagged the risk of their staffing levels in writing three weeks prior. I can provide the email thread if you’re concerned about my foresight.”
Lizanne let the silence stretch, savoring the steel in the girl’s voice. She liked that Rose didn’t flinch. “I didn’t see any experience with reality television on your resume, Rose.”
“I didn’t know there would be a reality TV component until ten minutes ago, but I assure you, I can handle a few camera crews. I’ve done birthdays for the Loveland family more than once. If I can survive those siblings, I can survive a director.”
The Lovelands. Lizanne almost laughed. They were a family of trust-fund terrors who were famous for being famous.Their father was a sitting US Senator, their mother a Hollywood agent.
“This will be a classier affair than what the Lovelands are doing,” Lizanne said, her tone dropping. “Think more… a stylish documentary. Not a drama-filled mockumentary. The show begins filming the moment you start the processional. There is no second take. If you drop the cake, three million people watch it fall in real-time.”
