THE WRONG BRIDE

I believe that love is a sickness. It is a beautiful, highly expensive disease that makes perfectly smart people do completely insane things. I see it every single day. As New York City’s top luxury wedding planner, my entire job revolves around managing rich people who are losing their absolute minds over flower colors, napkin textures, and seating arrangements. I am the person who smiles and fixes the chaos while the world is burning down around me. But today, my own sanity was hanging by a very thin thread. I stood in the center of the Grand Tasting Room at the St. Regis Hotel, taking a deep, shuddering breath. I adjusted the lapels of my tailored blazer, trying to channel a confidence I didn't actually feel. Right now, the room looked less like a luxury wedding space and more like a high-society battlefield. "Arthur," I said, my voice dropping to a sharp, panicked whisper. "I am telling you right now, if that cake falls, my career is completely over. I will have to change my name, dye my hair, and move to a remote island." I stared at the monster sitting on the central table. It was a giant, six-tiered wedding cake. It was supposed to be a masterpiece of white fondant, edible gold leaf, and handmade sugar cascading down the sides. Instead, it was currently leaning to the left at a highly alarming angle. It looked like it was tired of being a cake and wanted to lie down. Arthur, my twenty-two-year-old assistant, was standing on a step stool. He was wearing a neon-pink bowtie that didn't match the hotel's aesthetic at all. Holding a pair of tiny silver tweezers, he was calmly trying to save a single fake sugar flower near the top tier. He was completely relaxed, which only made me want to scream louder. "Clara, darling, you need to relax!" Arthur smiled down at me, completely unbothered. "It is not falling. Think of it like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, but way more delicious! It has character. It has personality." "The Montgomery family does not pay our agency millions of dollars for 'character,' Arthur," I said, my fingers flying across my tablet as I checked the schedule for the tenth time. My heart was beating so hard against my ribs I was surprised he couldn't hear it. "Tomorrow morning at exactly eight o'clock is the press tasting. Vivienne Montgomery—our very rich, very famous, and very scary bride—will literally fire us on the spot if she sees a crooked cake. She won't just fire us. She will use her family's media empire to destroy my reputation before lunch." "Vivienne needs a therapist, not a wedding planner," Arthur muttered, carefully placing a sugar petal. "She has rejected four different shades of white silk today. White is white, Clara." "Not to billionaires," I sighed, rubbing my temples. Before Arthur could reply, the heavy double doors of the tasting room swung open. The air in the room suddenly changed. It felt like someone had opened a freezer door. A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the space, and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I didn't even need to look up from my tablet to know exactly who had just walked in. Julian Vance. He was the groom. At just twenty-eight years old, he was a tech billionaire, the head of Vance International, and undisputedly the most handsome man I had ever seen in my life. Today, he wore a tailored black suit that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. His dark hair was styled back, but a few rebellious strands fell over his forehead. His eyes were a piercing, icy gray, and his jawline looked like it had been carved out of marble. He looked powerful, impossibly wealthy, and completely, utterly miserable. That was the big secret. Julian Vance was not marrying Vivienne Montgomery for love. It wasn't a fairy tale romance; it was a cold, calculated business deal between two giant corporations. It was a merger disguised as a wedding. Everyone in high society knew it, but nobody dared to say it out loud. "Where is Vivienne?" Julian’s deep, baritone voice echoed through the empty room. He didn't look at the beautiful decorations. He didn't look at the leaning cake. His intense gaze locked onto me, ignoring everything else. "She is running a bit late, Mr. Vance," I said, forcing my voice to sound smooth and professional. It was a struggle. My skin felt hot just being in the same room as him, and my stomach did a nervous flip. Julian let out a short, bitter laugh. He stepped deeper into the room, his leather shoes clicking against the marble floor. "Of course she is. She doesn't actually care about this wedding. She only cares about the cameras and the press release." He stopped just a few feet away from me. He was so tall that I had to tilt my head back just to look into his eyes. The rich, woody scent of his expensive cologne washed over me, making my head spin for a brief second. Up close, I could see the tight lines of exhaustion around his eyes. He looked trapped. Suddenly, a loud c***k echoed through the room. "Oh, sweet mother of macaroni," Arthur gasped from his step stool. Crack. The internal structure of the giant wedding cake completely gave way. The six-tiered tower began to slide, tilting forward rapidly. It wasn't just leaning anymore—it was falling, and it was coming directly toward me. "Clara, move!" Arthur screamed, dropping his tweezers. My brain short-circuited. I froze, my feet glued to the floor as I watched fifty pounds of sugar and frosting hurtle toward my face. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself for the impact, expecting to be buried under a mountain of ruined dessert. But the crash never came for me. Instead, a pair of strong, solid arms wrapped tightly around my waist. Before I could even register what was happening, I was yanked backward with incredible force. A large, warm hand cupped the back of my head, protecting me, and pulled me tightly against a broad, hard chest. Thud! Splat! The giant cake hit the marble floor with a massive, sickening sound. Frosting and broken sugar flowers exploded everywhere, destroying the expensive white carpet and the floral arrangements on the ground. It was a total disaster. But I couldn't breathe. And it had absolutely nothing to do with the ruined cake. It was because of Julian. He had reacted in a split second, throwing his own body in front of the danger to pull me away. My hands were pressed firmly against his chest, right over his heart. I could feel its steady, heavy thudding beneath the expensive fabric of his shirt. The heat radiating from his body was overwhelming. Julian looked down at me, his breathing slightly heavy. The icy look in his eyes was completely gone, replaced by a dark, intense storm. He didn't let go of my waist. In fact, his grip tightened, pulling me a fraction of an inch closer against him. It felt protective. Almost possessive. "Are you hurt?" he asked. His voice was lower now, rough and raspy, vibrating right through my palms. "I—I am fine," I whispered, my voice trembling. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Our faces were only inches apart. I could see the tiny gold flecks in his gray eyes. For a fleeting second, his gaze dropped down to my lips, his jaw tightening. The tension in the room grew so thick and heavy it felt like a physical weight. He was a billionaire groom, a man who belonged to another woman, and I was just the hired help. This was completely wrong. It was dangerous. But my body completely refused to move away from his warmth. "You should be more careful, Clara," he murmured. His breath was warm against my flushed skin, sending a shiver straight down my spine. He slowly lifted his hand from the back of my head. Gently, using the pad of his thumb, he brushed a stray smudge of white icing away from my cheek. His touch was incredibly soft, a sharp contrast to his cold reputation. It felt like literal fire on my skin. We stood there, frozen in time, holding each other in the exact middle of a ruined room. Tomorrow, he was supposed to stand at an altar and swear his life to Vivienne Montgomery. But right now, in this messy, broken moment, Julian Vance was looking at me like I was the only person left in the entire universe. "Ahem," Arthur cleared his throat loudly from the corner, holding a piece of broken cake. "I mean... I am glad everyone is alive, but we are going to need a lot of wet wipes." The spell broke. Julian slowly let his hands drop from my waist, stepping back. The cold, distant mask immediately slid back over his handsome face, but his eyes stayed on me for one last, lingering second. "Fix the cake, Clara," Julian said softly, his voice returning to its usual calm tone. "And make sure you don't get hurt next time." Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and walked out of the room, leaving me standing in the ruins of the afternoon, my heart racing and my lips still tingling.