“She needed to see a person, Quinn. Not a machine. She didn’t think I could understand ‘the heart’ of a wedding without a ring on my finger. That…” Oh crap. She looked at her own hand and breathed out a sigh of relief. She was wearing her Ruby ring. It had been a Sweet Sixteen gift from her father, three days before he’d died. She wore it on occasion, usually when she needed some sort of encouragement.
It didn’t look like an engagement ring, but it had been on the correct finger. And that had to be enough.
“So... I gave her a heart. I gave her Derek.”
“Mm.” Quinn swung his jacket over his shoulder. “Alright. I guess. Do be careful though, lest that crush you used to have on Lizanne Connors resurfaces.”
Rose’s nostrils flared. “I didnothave a crush.”
“Sure you did. Anyway, you have two weddings to build tonight. One real, one fake.”
She had, in fact, had a crush on Lizanne back when she’d been an action movie star ten years ago, before she took over televisions and streaming services the world over as a Regency Duchess.
Rose sat in the quiet after he left, listening to the hum of the refrigerator. She went to her desk, opened her laptop, and opened a new tab.
First, she’d set up a website for herself and Derek, using the photo of Quinn. All you could see was the back of their heads and a hint of a beard. Nobody would know it was Quinn. The beard had been a phase. It would do….
Then she’d set up a registry. She’d call up Kayla, her bff, to buy something and write a message of support. Quinn and her mom too. Her mom had three different email addresses; that should do.
It was going to be a very long night. She had a Regency-themed masterpiece to design for a movie star, and a life to invent for herself. As she started typing, she felt a strange, cold thrill. She was an architect now. And Derek? Derek was going to be the most patient, most impressive man Hollywood had ever seen.
Chapter 4
Lizanne
The kitchen of their shared estate was a minimalist’s dream—all white marble, seamless cabinetry, and hidden appliances that made the space look less like a place for cooking and more like a laboratory. Lizanne stood by the sprawling island, watching Trina dial in the grind on the industrial-grade espresso machine. The hiss of steam was the only sound in the house, a sharp, white-noise contrast to the heavy silence of the canyon outside.
“I’m telling you, the energy in the room shifted the second she brought up her own wedding,” Lizanne said, leaning back against the cold marble counter. She was still in her heavy silk robe, her face bare, the high-definition makeup from yesterday’s press junket long since scrubbed away. “Before that, she was all Steadicam rigs and perimeter security. Very technical. Very cold. She felt like an operative.”
Trina didn’t look up from the portafilter, her focus entirely on the dark, oily beans. “Maybe she was nervous, honey bee. You’re a lot to take in when you’re standing in a living room that costs more than most people’s houses. Especially when you’re in ‘Duchess’ mode.”
“I wasn’t in Duchess mode. I was in ‘I’m paying you big bucks to put on my wedding in record time’ mode.” Lizanne tapped her manicured nails against the marble in a restless, syncopated rhythm. “The other two planners... they were fine. Polished. One of them actually brought a physical portfolio that looked like a leather-bound encyclopedia. But Rose? She looked like she’d crawled out of a trench and put on a Chanel suit tohide the mud. I liked that. There was a hunger there. I just didn’t know if I trusted it with our wedding until she talked about that attorney of hers.”
Trina finally looked up, handing Lizanne a small, perfect cup of espresso. Her eyes were dark and heavy with the kind of fatigue that only comes from twelve-hour studio sessions. “It’s your wedding. Pick whoever you want. I’m just the one who has to show up, look sharp, and say ‘I do.’”
“It’sourwedding, Trina.”
“And you’re the one who knows the difference between ‘Regency Chic’ and ‘Regency Trashy,’” Trina countered with a lazy, affectionate smile. She leaned over the island, catching Lizanne’s gaze. “I’m just here for the cake and the tax benefits.”
Lizanne rolled her eyes but felt the familiar, magnetic pull of her. “I saw she did Marcus Lance’s birthday party. Remember? The one with the lighting that actually made everyone look ten years younger and twenty percent more glam?”
Trina paused, her cup halfway to her lips. She tilted her head, the gears of her memory turning. “The one in the canyon? With the floating orchids? That was a good party. One of the only ones that didn’t feel like a networking event disguised as a celebration. People actually danced. She did that?”
“According to Pat.” Lizanne sighed, staring into the dark crema of her coffee. “There was just something... odd. A vibration I couldn’t quite catch. I’m going to do a bit more digging before we send the contract. I don’t like mysteries.”
“Spoken like a woman who’s played too many spies,” Trina teased. She stepped around the island, sliding her arms aroundLizanne’s waist and pulling her close. The scent of coffee and Trina’s expensive citrus cologne enveloped her. “Good thing you’ll just have to play yourself for a bit.”
The mood shifted as the reality of the next few months settled over them like a heavy shroud. Lizanne was in the final sprint of promotional interviews for Season Three ofGilden Duchess, and the network was already screaming for more content. The timing for a wedding was a nightmare, but the marketing momentum was undeniable.
“The show, Trina,” Lizanne whispered, leaning her forehead against Trina’s shoulder. “Prime Esque called Pat this morning. They want the final shooting schedule. They want to start filming the week before the wedding, get some buildup going, some clips they can use.”
Trina’s posture stiffened slightly, a subtle hardening of the muscles in her back. “Right. The ‘reality’ of it all. Tell me again why we’re letting them follow us into the bedroom for twelve months? Why our first year of marriage has to be a global stream?”
“Because it will help the show and it will launch your new label into a different stratosphere. Plus, it’s a stylish documentary, Trina. Not a soap opera,” Lizanne said, though she sounded like she was reciting a PR script she had memorized but didn’t quite believe. “Not to mention the paycheck covers the estate in Provence we wanted. It’s one year, honey. One year of being ‘on’ so we can be ‘off’ for the rest of our lives.”
Trina gave in with a reluctant nod, the fight leaving her. “All right. The contracts are already signed, anyway. I’m just... I’m tired of the lenses, Liz.” She kissed Lizanne’s cheek and pulled away, reaching for her keys on the counter. “I have to getto the studio. Read your research. Pick your planner. Just make sure she knows I don’t wear dresses with puffed-up sleeves.”
“I thought you were wearing a suit.”
