Chapter Thirty-Three
There is a special kind of exhaustion reserved solely for wedding planners, and I had just reached the platinum, gold-foiled, velvet-lined edition of it.
By the next morning as dawn stretched itself over Langston Estate, Cleo and I had already been up for hours. Actual hours. Long, painful ones.
We were finalising deliveries, confirming call sheets, fussing with the arch florals, fielding questions from vendors who should not have had questions, and retying a frankly disrespectful amount of silk ribbon.
“Why does the most expensive ribbon behave like this?” Cleo groaned as she wrestled with the bow on the chaise arrangement. “It’s like it’s trying to be difficult.”
I made a noise that could have been agreement or impending collapse.
Between yesterday’s revelations, and what happened with Noah… my entire body felt like a violin string tuned one pitch too tight.
Nope. Not thinking about that. Not today. Not when I had a society wedding to construct out of sweat, florals, and the blood sacrifice of my sanity.
Langston Estate had transformed almost magically overnight. What had been a serene, historic vineyard now resembled the set of a high-budget film.
Elegant marquees rose across the lawn like silk-draped cathedrals, their white peaks glinting in the early light. Cascading white florals spilled from every arch and table, an almost obscene abundance of roses, peonies, and hydrangeasarranged so artfully it felt less like floristry and more like horticultural sorcery.
Trails of greenery looped and curled down table runners, lush and fragrant, like someone had decided to re-create the Hanging Gardens of Babylon purely because it would photograph well.
Satin ribbons fluttered from every chair, canopy, and floral structure, catching the breeze and rippling like silver flames.
Rows of lanterns lined the aisle, polished to a mirror shine, each one holding a floating candle that would glow once the sun began to dip.
Even the Champagne station was ridiculous, several tiers of crystal glass fountains ready to overflow at the slightest touch, an entire wall of imported bottles chilled to perfection.
A string quartet sat beneath the gum trees, their instruments glimmering in the shade as they warmed up, each note floating through the garden with reverent delicacy, the kind of sound that made even the magpies stop warbling for five whole seconds.
Even after years of doing luxury weddings, and after months of seeing the plans and mood boards and design mock-ups, I still found myself standing there thinking:
Holy shit.
I actually did it.
Everywhere I turned, there were people, vendors, staff, stylists, florists, distant relatives I didn’t recognise but who somehow carried the energy of people who knew their caviar.
And then my gaze snagged on Noah.
He was across the lawn speaking with Izzy, muscles broad beneath his expertly cut suit, wavy hair brushed back but still unruly. He was impossibly handsome. Shockingly handsome. And yet he looked heartbreakingly tired.
Our eyes met for half a second.
Something in me melted…
No. No, absolutely not. Focus, Holly.
Feelings were not on today’s schedule.
They were to be placed gently into a tiny emotional Tupperware, the cheap kind from Kmart, and the lid was to be snapped ontight. Preferably with masking tape.
Maybe a padlock.
I pivoted back towards the catering station like a woman fleeing a crime scene.
Right.
Canapé trays. Ceremony layout. The seating symmetry, which absolutely refused to be symmetrical no matter what I did.
