Page 121 of Every Shattered Note
Or maybe that’s just me.
Jules is elbow-deep in a box of replacement chair sashes, her hair pinned up like she’s about to rob a train, muttering something about “sunshine-infused coral being an abomination.”Beside her, the florist’s assistant stands motionless, pale as the tower of decapitated yellow roses stacked behind her.The hydrangeas are sweating, the daisies are gasping, and the peonies—God help us—look like they’ve already given up on life.
What was supposed to be a tasteful vow renewal has spiraled into a full-blown wedding circus.The clients’ daughter is pregnant, the timeline collapsed, and suddenly we’re planning a shotgun wedding on a vow renewal budget with seventy-two hours of notice and a client who believes coral and yellow are “grounding.”
I should tell them that getting married because of a baby isn’t romantic—it’s logistically insane.And maybe a warning sign.But I won’t.Because this is my job.And also, because this isn’t my story.
Even with the legal pushback, we changed the colors—mostly because they’re covering the cost.The bride cried.The mother hyperventilated.The groom looked like he needed a drink—or possibly a different fiancée.
Thanks to Dexter’s legal team, we’re not losing money.I owe him more than I can repay.Emotionally.Logistically.Existentially.
The bride’s mother is sobbing near the cake table, blotting her face with a cloth napkin the exact hue of her regret.The bride is on her third meltdown—this time about the petal toss.The groom is MIA.Morning sickness has taken over the room like a poltergeist.And just as Jules finishes strangling the chair bows with “loving intention,” the string quartet informs me their cellist had a vision and left mid-rehearsal.
So yeah.Just another Sunday in paradise.
I’m trying to untangle the seating chart with one hand and coax a ribbon into submission with the other when Jules leans close and hisses, “If I die today, tell my mother I loved her and that it was the peonies’ fault.”
“Noted,” I mutter, still scanning the entryway.“Do we have an ETA on the miracle cellist?”
“Ten minutes, maybe fifteen.”She yanks a bow tight like she’s closing a chapter.“Assuming traffic isn’t apocalyptic.Also—can I just say I’m in love with Dexter Vaughn’s legal team?They gave us contacts for everything.Musicians, caterers, damn, I think there’s a sword-swallower on that list.”
“You can love them, but remember, we always have everything under control,” I say automatically.That’s what planners do—we lie, beautifully, so others can believe everything will be fine while we quietly fall apart.
The hotel’s glass doors open behind me, letting in a rush of cold March air.I don’t turn.I’m rehearsing the gentle but firm speech I’ll give the bride when she inevitably changes her mind about yellow and claims she’s “always been more of a sage green soul.”
Then the air shifts.
Something in me reacts—a pull low in my gut, an ache just beneath my ribs.I lift my head.
And he’s there.
Dexter Vaughn.
Standing in the entryway like something out of a fever dream.Dark jeans, soft charcoal shirt rolled to his elbows, his hair a little longer than before, falling in a tousled wave over his brow.No glasses today.Just him—more alive than the version I’ve been holding onto but infinitely more dangerous.
My clipboard slips from my hands.
Jules follows my gaze and freezes mid-sash.“Oh my God,” she breathes.“He’s here.”
“I see that.”
“Do I call security or Vogue?”
“Neither,” I whisper.And then I’m moving.
My legs carry me before my brain catches up.Each step feels slow and fast all at once, like wading through a dream I’m terrified to wake from.Across the ballroom, Dexter starts moving too—one stride, then another, like we’re tethered by some invisible thread neither of us dares cut.
For a second, the noise drops away.The hum of logistics, the panic of florals, Jules cursing under her breath—it all dulls beneath the rush of adrenaline in my ears.
We meet halfway, somewhere between the coral ribbons and the wilting yellow roses, like the chaos around us bent just enough to make room for this.
For him.
For me.
For whatever this is now, in the space between what we were and what we might be some day.
His eyes sweep over my face, almost reverent.As if he’s making sure I’m not a projection of his hope.His hands find my waist, warm and certain, and I don’t think.I move.
